I’ve heard it said that going from one child to two is when parenting goes from being a hobby to being a job. If that’s the case, then going from one to three likely turns things into a career – and if I’m about to start a new career, I should probably document the journey somewhere for posterity (and likely sanity as well…).
The story truly begins with The Boy: my light; my stars and moon; my sweetest, most brilliant, polite, caring, affectionate, well-behaved, perfect baby boy. But, you know, in a four-year-old’s body who also sometimes happens to drive you batshit crazy. Logan joined the world on June 18, 2011 at 10:01 am – just half an hour before the Bruins championship parade would roll through the streets of Boston only miles away from our hospital room; as his daddy watched longingly, even catching glimpses of our own friends on tv standing in the crowd waving flags and screaming. Three days earlier they’d won the Stanley Cup, and Logan apparently wanted to make sure he was here in time to join the celebration.
Logan’s delivery was tumultuous at best, and perhaps someday I’ll detail that whole saga for you all, but for now the quick and dirty of it is that I was out cold for his c-section birth after unsuccessfully pushing for 5+ hours and telling the hospital staff “fuck you, I’ll do this myself” after they suggested a c-section might be in order. Turns out, this wasn’t their first rodeo and they happened to know what they were talking about…lesson learned…
Fast forward about three and a half years, and this amazing little guy starts suggesting that he would like a brother (not a sister; he already has a girl cousin two years younger than him that was practically a sister). Suggestion evolved into demand, along with complaints that he was “bored” or “lonely” after moving away from the busy city life and out of the big house that had also had his Mimi, Uncle, Aunt, and aforementioned cousin to keep him occupied. I won’t lie, we weren’t totally sold on the idea of a second baby. But we didn’t want to just have one forever either, and no one was getting any younger so it was kind of time to shit or get off the pot. So the Mirena came out, and the quest for baby #2 began.
When you’re trying for a baby, I think especially for the woman (though being a woman, I can’t truly speak for the men myself), every cycle without success digs at your soul a little more. It’s this overwhelming desire, a craving or obsession, for a child that comes from your innermost primordial being and actually makes you go clinically insane. Seriously. Whether it’s the first month or tenth, it eats at you and makes you feel more and more like a failure of the human species – after all, this is how mankind has survived for thousands of years so everyone should be able to do it, right?
We were 29 and healthy, and had gotten pregnant with Logan just three months after getting married without “trying” very hard at all…you know, just normal newlywed sex stuff. So I expected things to go just as easily this time around. Three months in, I’m fairly convinced that we had a chemical pregnancy (though, not having doctors monitoring closely we couldn’t really be sure of it) and two weeks after that I found myself peeing on sticks three times a day and dragging Dan into bed when it seemed like the timing would be right. Insanity.
It didn’t help that this time around our other friends were having babies and announcing pregnancies practically weekly. iPhones and Pinterest had turned Facebook even moreso into a billboard/megaphone for shove-it-in-your-face sharing of every aspect of people’s lives than it had been four years earlier. Look at it this way: we still had BlackBerries when Logan was born. I had a hard time being happy for everyone else, save for my best friend who gave birth to her first son when I was four months into the ordeal. But we kept trying and alas, that pee stick finally showed up positive and I immediately texted a picture of it to said best friend (in Seattle, at what would have been 4 or 5 am for her) for confirmation that I wasn’t just imagining that second faint line.
Trying not to get yourself excited is literally one of the most challenging things in the world, so I waited a day for another positive test to tell Dan, trying not to fully let myself believe that this had finally happened just yet. [Disclaimer: I completely recognize that anyone who has been trying for longer than six months wants to punch me in the face for using the word “finally” here; however, I stand by my previous statement that no matter how long you’ve been trying, once you decide you want a baby every passed month is a month too long.] But positive it was, and excitement and announcement ensued, followed very closely by weeks of puking in between sleeping for days on end. At the 12-week ultrasound, we would get the surprise of our lives when we found out that there were actually two healthy little DeliBeans sprouted in there: The Baes Who Lived…