My 15-month-old son Luke, whose first four teeth starting sprouting when he was 11 months old, now has three more teeth coming in, allowing him to eat more chewy foods. He will literally try ANY food—and loves almost every food he samples, from guacamole to chili to steak—so feeding him is increasingly fun.

He started walking a month ago, first stumbling a few steps, his face flushing with pride. When he’d fall, which was often, he’d shed no tears, for he’s “tough as nails,” as my sister-in-law noted. He’d simply push himself back up and continue on, walking, then falling, walking, then falling, and now he’s a pro.

Within the past week, he’s started calling me “Mom.” Actually, it’s either “Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom” or “MomMomMomMomMomMom”—most often shrieked.

On Sunday morning, my son Patrick discovered his first loose tooth. Almost every friend his age has lost multiple baby teeth, so he’s been desperate to join their ranks, rather than, from his 6-year-old perspective, lag behind in development.

On Sunday night, right before bed, he said, “Mom, look at the ridiculous amount of hair on my arm.” I explained that growing more hair on his body is yet another sign that he’s growing up. (He also wears size 10-12 clothing because he’s so tall.)

My 15-year-old stepson has his Learner’s Permit, and my 17-year-old stepson has his Driver’s License and his first job.

All of these accomplishments are celebrated, as they should be, for while my husband and I may sometimes mourn the ease or joy of our sons’ earlier developmental stages, being a parent is about preparing your children to be independent.

And what I learned last week is that being a child of an older parent is about not only helping your parent as he or she loses independence, but also about personally mourning the loss of the parent as he or she had been.

My father, just 69 years old, has been diagnosed with an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm, Mild Cognitive Impairment (Dementia), Parkinson’s Disease and depression.

He has trouble swallowing, so he’s limited the foods he’s willing to try and also the people around which he will eat. He’s lost 70 pounds.

He has difficulty walking, getting out of bed and lifting himself up from a chair.

He falls often.

His speech is difficult to understand.

He has Parkinson’s Mask—immobility of his facial muscles—so he has minimal facial expression.

He can’t drive.

While all of this would be difficult for any man—and any child witnessing it—his condition is intolerable to him—and me—because of who he was and is. My father was a star athlete. He was a revered, award-winning coach. He was a successful businessman. He was and is the ultimate hard-ass, to be blunt. Now he is cognitively, physically and emotionally disabled—yet his dementia is mild enough for him to be fully aware of this.

And unless something unexpected happens, the rest of my father’s life will be a progression toward increasing dependence, of which he’ll only be free in death. So I’m already mourning.

Luke at 14 months

I haven’t posted in almost a year, because of feeling exhausted and overwhelmed post-bed rest and post-C-Section, not to mention, at the ripe age of 42, being the mother of a newborn. When I have had any free time, I’ve napped.

However, 15 months into my son Luke’s life, I’m starting to feel like myself again, so I want to make writing a priority as it was before he was born.

Plus, two weeks ago, my friend Cecilia had an intervention with me: She told me to “just go home and write.” She said, when I was blogging constantly, every night she’d prop herself up in bed, plop her laptop on her lap, and “check in to see what was going on with MK.” She said she suspected I’d touched a lot of people with my posts.

Although I didn’t just “go home and write” that night, I’ve been thinking about writing, which is the precursor to actually writing.

Then last night I knew I had material, thanks to my six-year-old son Patrick, who is an excellent source of material, actually. At bedtime, after Patrick and I finished reading, we talked for a few minutes about our day, and he announced, “Mom, there are two kids in my [sports] camp who are fat like you. Maybe their moms signed them up so they lose some weight.”

So, in addition to making writing a priority, I need to focus on losing the rest of my pregnancy weight. Fat camp, perhaps?

On February 24, I wrote a post titled “Face vs. Ass” about the face-versus-body dilemma taunting many aging women, at least those women unwilling to use extraordinary means to look young: http://www.mkkennedy.com/2010/02/face-versus-ass/

Today, five months later, nearly four months since my son was born on April 5, I’ve lost 42 of the 67 pounds I gained during my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles and my pregnancy.

This sounds impressive, I know.

But I lost the first 40 of these 42 pounds in the first five weeks after my son was born—effortlessly.

In the 11 weeks since, I’ve lost only two pounds, regardless of round-the-clock breastfeeding, which is chunking up my 3½-month-old son Luke, but not de-chunking me.

Last Saturday, my friend Chris, whom I’ve known for 26 years, and I got pedicures together, with Luke in tow, because he is that well-behaved. Because my 42nd birthday was four days later—yesterday—we were talking about aging, about the progressive changes to our bodies, from wrinkles to aching body parts.

In the midst of our chatter, she said, “You don’t have a wrinkle on your face.”

I do often have wrinkles on my forehead because my facial expressions reveal them, but I have these lines hidden by bangs.

But as far as my 42-year-old face, my 25 pounds of excess baggage are an amazing cover-up. Even when I smile, I only have a few wrinkles underneath my eyes; my previous ones on the side of each eye are gone.

With my 25 unnecessary pounds, I’ve drastically reduced the aging appearance of my face.

As far as my backside, my husband gave me a birthday card featuring a woman gazing at her ample derriere in a full-length mirror. She is, by the way, wrinkle-free. The card reads, “Happy Birthday to my wife who’s still ‘got it’…”

Whether I’m fit or fat, my husband thinks I’ve still got it.

So the dilemma isn’t face vs. ass, but how to find a man or woman who loves you regardless.

I didn’t get married until I was 38½, but I’ve got one.

Today is my birthday, I’m 42, and I’m not even depressed.

For me, this level of contentment is significant, for I’ve spent more than half of my life monitoring my biological clock, making varying decisions as it ticked, tocked, blared, then declared war on anyone in its way.

At age 18, I entered Miami University as a Psychology major. However, upon taking an introductory Psychology course during the first semester of my freshman year, I learned I’d have to go to school for five years after college to earn a Psy.D., as opposed to a Ph.D., in Psychology, so I changed my major. Considering that my primary goal was to be a mom, spending so many years in school—starting my counseling career upon earning a Psy.D. at age 27—seemed a waste.

I never dated for fun: From my first date at age 15 until meeting my husband at the tail end of 35, I evaluated each and every man based on whether or not he’d be a good husband and father. I remember being at a grab-a-date event my sophomore year at Miami University, with my date, a recent love, blowing me off by telling me that it was obvious I “was looking for something,” and he “wasn’t it.”

I was 30 for the year that I lived and worked in London, England, as start-up manager and acting director of the British Film Institute’s (BFI’s) London IMAX® Cinema, a period in which I worked countless hours. When the BFI approached me about extending my contract, the concept of being in London past the launch of the IMAX 3D Cinema, having a normal life in one of the world’s most spectacular cities, was appealing—except that I was turning 31. I knew I didn’t want to stay in London for the long-term, so staying seemed useless, for I didn’t want to fall in love, get married and have children in a city in which I had never felt at home myself.

My desire to find “The One,” then to beat my biological clock, was the primary determinant in my decision-making regarding career and associated city, country, continent. And although I did partake in many experiences, I gave up opportunities as I aged, for they didn’t mesh with my goal of being a regular mom.

At age 35, I started trying to get pregnant on my own, using donor sperm, only to be foiled by DES (diethylstilbestrol)-related infertility. However, I did have success on my seventh cycle of intrauterine insemination.

After having my son Patrick at age 36, I am a mom, however I never let go of my desire to have a second biological child. So as I turned 37, 38 and 39, I felt increasingly tense. As I neared 40, I felt downright panic. And as I turned 41 one year ago, with one unsuccessful in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycle under my belt, with the egg retrieval of my second IVF cycle only days away, I felt as if every day that I aged reduced my chances. Because every day did.

Today I am 42, and I have a second biological child, my son Luke, who is 3½ months old. I finally feel as if my family is complete, so today is the first birthday in probably 12 years in which I am not obsessed with my DES-induced infertility and/or my biological clock. I am truly content.

So today I spent my day snuggling with my boys, first curled up in bed this morning, where Patrick, age 5, suggested that because it’s my birthday, we should buy some vanilla ice cream, which happens to be his favorite food. Then this afternoon, my husband came home from work early, and we watched a movie, with my motivated husband working out, while I, not so motivated, lounged in a recliner with Patrick and Luke lying on top of me.

I’m a thinker, so I reveled in these hours, appreciating all I have been blessed with and loving that my birthday is no longer cause for biological-clock concern.

Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me.

Luke at 12 weeks

Patrick at 18 months

When I was pregnant with my newborn son Luke, now 12 weeks old, I broke the news to my sperm-donor-conceived son Patrick, age five, that the two of them may not look alike.

I explained that while his donor and I have blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin, his adoptive Dad provided the sperm that made Luke, and his baby brother may have his Dad’s brown hair, brown eyes and darker skin. He understood, for his two brothers, ages 14 and 16, my husband’s biological children from his first marriage, have brown hair and brown eyes. But he said he wanted Luke to look not like Dad and his older brothers, but like him.

Luke, almost three months old, has brown hair, for sure. While Patrick was born with reddish-brown hair that fell out, with white-blonde hair replacing it, Luke’s hair, ultra-dark-brown at birth, has become light brown, but still brown.

Luke’s skin has a medium tone, while Patrick’s and my skin is so pale, it’s translucent, although both of us are able to tan.

And while Luke’s permanent eye color is yet to be determined, it will be some shade of brown. Patrick’s are absolutely blue.

So Patrick and Luke could not be more different as far as coloring. But my four brothers and I, all of whom have the same biological parents, have differing skin tones and hair colors, although all of us have blue eyes. My mother and uncle, who also share biological parents, are a pale-skinned brunette and a freckled redhead. Bottom line: Genetics don’t dictate that even full siblings resemble each other.

While I was a real blonde in my younger years, as I near age 42 my blonde is primarily artificial. But having a high-risk pregnancy and then a newborn, I’ve let myself go in a myriad of ways, and sadly I’d gotten used to the new, unkempt me—until last weekend, when my husband, sons and I were running errands, and I caught sight of myself in a full-length mirror as we walked to the back of a men’s clothing store: I noticed, for the first time, that I had a brown stripe down the middle of my head, along my hair’s part line.

Spurred to fix my reverse-skunk look, I made an appointment to have my hair cut and highlighted this afternoon. As my stylist asked me if I’d like highlights and lowlights, or if I’d rather just add blonde, I told her that all I want is to have Patrick’s white-blonde hair. Sitting in a chair across from us, playing games on my iPhone®, he grinned. His hair color is stunning, so he gets a lot of attention for it, including ample women proclaiming how much they’d absolutely die to have his hair.

Today Patrick got a haircut too, and as we talked in bed tonight, I told him that his hair looked handsome, then asked if he liked mine.

“Yes.”

“I look better blonde,” I said.

Patrick immediately asked, “Can we bleach Luke’s hair out?”

“No, sweetie.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, maybe when he’s older.”

Before I could intervene, he continued, “And his eyes…”

When he abruptly stopped, then remained silent, I asked, “What were you going to say about Luke’s eyes?”

“Well, we don’t know the color yet,” he stated. “But they’re dark. They look black. I was thinking we could change the color.”

Patrick was overtired tonight. We had a busy day, with dual eye appointments, dual hair appointments and a relative’s birthday dinner at a restaurant, at which he hit his Dad in anger. So tonight was not the night in which to explain anything, including that his baby brother looks perfect just the way he is, with his light-brown hair, dark eyes and dark skin.

And I need a night to think about how to explain that Luke is perfect just the way he is, yet I look better blonde.

For more than five years, my much-longed-for son has been my primary focus to the extent that my husband and I call him “The Little Prince,” and, according to his preschool teacher, who has more than 30 years of experience teaching children ages two to six, we have an exceptionally close mother-son relationship. So I’m daily asked how my five-year-old has reacted to his baby brother, born April 5, and to having to share my attention. The answer is exceptionally well, with only a few negative comments.

NOTE: The members of my writers group had an intervention with me, in which they said that, while they understand my disinclination to use my sons’ real names in my blog, it’s distracting—and emotionally distancing—to not refer to them by some names, rather than identifying them by age, as in “my 14-year-old stepson” and “my five-year-old son.” So from now on, I will refer to my 16-year-old stepson as Vlad, teasingly cursing him with the “sexy vampire name” he wanted to give his baby brother; my 14-year-old stepson as Elvis, for they share a birthday; my five-year-old as Patrick, his middle name; and my newborn as Luke, since Patrick was desperate to name him Luke Skywalker, and, while he didn’t get his wish, he may be appeased that Luke will be his little brother’s pseudonym.

Since the day of Luke’s birth, Patrick has been sweet, gentle and protective of his newborn brother.

For the first few weeks of Luke’s life, he kept declaring, “That baby is so cute.”

When, on Day 3, the hospital photographer came to our room to take pictures, he noticed that Luke was squinting every time the camera flash went off, so he walked over to him and, cupping his hands, he placed them like tiny umbrellas over Luke’s eyes, shielding him from the light.

When I walk even a few feet away from the baby monitor, Patrick will yell, “Mama, don’t forget the baby monitor,” and run it over to me.

If I hear Luke fussing, I’ll enter the room to find Patrick leaning over him, putting Luke’s pacifier in his mouth and singing made-up songs to try to soothe him.

On Sunday, my husband was watching Patrick and Luke, while I visited a pregnant friend in the hospital, and when my husband went outside to grill hamburgers for dinner while Luke was asleep in the swing, Patrick said, defiantly, “You’d better not ignore him!”

And Patrick claims Luke as his own, asking his five-year-old friends, “Do you want to look at my baby?”

While I’m sure that he has felt ample jealousy, Patrick’s negative reactions have been rare.

Shortly after Luke and I returned from the hospital, Patrick, Luke and I were lying in my bed in the morning, and Patrick asked flat-out, “Why does he have to be around all the time?”

“Because he’s a member of our family,” I replied. And that was that.

But about two weeks after he was born, Luke was crying at Patrick’s bedtime, our special time together each night in which we read books, tell stories and talk about his day. I told Patrick that I was sorry, but that I needed to feed Luke, and he asked me to do it in their bedroom. I said no, explaining that because of my still-painful C-section incision, I couldn’t get comfortable breastfeeding Luke from his bed. As I left the room with Luke in my arms, Patrick, feeling slighted because that cute baby brother of his was now affecting his time with me, said, “Stupid, stupid baby.”

The following week, when Luke was crying from his crib at bedtime once again, Patrick said, “That baby is so annoying. We never should have gotten that baby. I will never be able to sleep with that baby in here.”

I agreed that it is annoying when babies cry, explained that it is the only way Luke can communicate—and assured him that Luke will cry less and become more interactive and fun over time. Patrick has since admitted that Luke is more annoying than cute at this point, but that he is still glad that we have him.

I have little time to spend alone with Patrick now, and I repeat, “Give me a minute,” and “I’ll be right there,” to him dozens of times each day. But I’ve learned that the key is our successful transition is to maintain my special nighttime routine with him at all costs and to empathize with his very normal negative feelings, rather than make him feel guilty for them. And while I have a needy newborn, if I enlist Patrick’s help in caring for Luke, he rarely feels left out or displaced or resentful.

The Littlest Prince in a Castle Made by His Big Brother

In short, I now have two “Little Princes,” and I am blissfully happy to spoil my two sweet boys.

Me, a Post-Partum Mess, Post C-Section

Abandoning my blog for nearly three months post-partum wasn’t part of my master plan. In fact, when answering e-mailed interview questions posed by Fran Howell, executive director of DES Action USA, in January, I responded to her question, “Will you continue to write after your son is born? How will you find the time???” with the following:

“Yes, I will continue to write after my son is born. It has become a daily ritual, a habit that I am dedicated to continuing. I’ve realized that, previously, my excuse that I didn’t have time to write was simply a manifestation of my fear of failing…”

I’ve barely written in three months, to the point where I couldn’t even complete a blog post, so I feel naïve and guilty. But rather than wallow in those feelings, as would previously have been my natural response, I need only to hold my newborn son—and every negative thought leaves me. I’ve never taken Valium, but that’s how I compare my reaction to having him: He alleviates all tension, all stress, making me Zen.

After going through two cycles of in vitro fertilization (IVF), losing his twin, suffering from placenta previa, and surviving multiple bleeds, four hospitalizations and bed rest, I gave birth to my completely healthy son at full term, 37½ weeks. I am so relieved and thankful that, when I saw my psychiatrist five weeks after he was born, she said at the end of the session, “Well, there’s no reason for you to be rushing back here.”

But I am so tired, due to having a newborn at the tail-end of age 41; being completely out of shape, having gained 67 pounds and been on bed rest since January 13; and having a C-section, which became infected, which, according to my team of high-risk doctors, “just happens sometimes.”

Being so exhausted makes me feel overwhelmed not because of my duties as mom, which I revel in, but because of the pile-ups around me. Literally pile-ups. I’ve started recording and watching the A&E television show Hoarders for inspiration, because I had to let things go, while enduring IVF, a high-risk pregnancy and then bed rest, and now sorting through the paperwork, the clothes, and the closets seems impossible. The individuals featured on Hoarders are worse off than I am—with some having long-dead animals crushed underneath the floor-to-ceiling clutter in their homes—which makes my clean, yet disorganized house seem more manageable.

Shortly after recovering from my C-section, my 5-year-old and I were watching Hoarders, when he announced, “Mama, my closet is a hoarder.” I had shoved every baby item given to me by friends into the closet in his bedroom, which he and my newborn share, to get them out of the way until I could sort through them and put them away.

Due to the wake-up call that my son thinks his closet is hoarding things, I have given up my loves—writing and jewelry making—in the short-term as I handle the necessities—being a mom and trying to get my home in order. I’ve gone through all the closets. I’ve sorted through my own and my four sons’ clothes, organizing those they’ve outgrown in bins labeled by sizes, for not-too-worn items will be passed from our 16-year-old to our 14-year-old to our 5-year-old to our newborn. I’ve reorganized most of the basement. I’ve given dozens of items to charity, even things I love but rarely use.

I’ve made great progress, yet today I felt incredibly paralyzed by how much I still have to address. But as things piled up in my home, I made a baby. And when he and I were at risk, I listened to my doctors and stayed put on the couch and/or in bed. I had my priorities straight, so he and I are healthy and happy.

Well, I’m still 26 pounds overweight and incredibly out of shape, but I’m on my way to healthy.

And I am so incredibly happy.

Tired But Happy Mama with the Reason She's Tired and Happy

My baby boy was born, via C-section, on Monday, April 5, at 10:07 a.m. He made it to term–37 1/2 weeks–weighing in at 7 pounds, 14 ounces, and measuring 20.5 inches long.

He’s perfectly healthy–and, as the nurses keep telling me, is “a beautiful C-section baby,” sans cone head, bruising, scratching and all of the other physical side effects of vaginal birth. I, on the other hand, experienced a perfect, pain-free delivery, but the C-section aftermath is brutal.

I’ll share all the details when I’m less debilitated, less medicated and less exhausted–all of which was worth having him, of course.

Formerly eating-disordered, I struggle with the emotional impact of my pregnancy weight gain, which in both successful pregnancies has been well beyond twice the maximum amount recommended.

In 2004-2005, when I was pregnant with my son, now 5, I didn’t have anyone take pictures of me until the tail-end of my pregnancy. And I only relented because of guilt, because friend upon friend told me that I would be cheating my son if I refused to be photographed, because a pregnancy picture is a must-have on the first page of every baby book.

I wasn’t able to find a baby book appropriate for our family situation anyway, for I conceived my son as an aspiring single mother inseminated with anonymous-donor sperm, and every baby book I saw included a family tree, with expectations that both branches be completed, along with other single-parent nightmares such as “Parents” pages featuring fill-ins like “The Story of How We Met.”

Not wanting my son to be screwed on both the baby book and pregnancy pic front, I had my boyfriend (now my husband) and other friends take pictures of me a few times during the final months of my pregnancy, and I’m glad I did. I have shown them to my son throughout his little life, and, in hindsight, they’re proof that I actually carried him, that at least one aspect of his conception and in-utero stay was “normal.”

With this pregnancy, I didn’t make any conscious decision not to be photographed. Actually, I’d planned to have our go-to photographer, Jennifer Girard, do a shoot because she has recently delved into pregnancy portraits. Jennifer encouraged me so I wouldn’t regret not having pictures of my final pregnancy, and she said to book the shoot as late in the pregnancy as possible.

But I was hospitalized at 25 weeks of pregnancy because of pre-term bleeding, then I was on full or partial bed rest for the last 11 weeks, so I couldn’t make it to her Wrigleyville studio. And now, frankly, I feel so disgusting that I can’t imagine that the effort involved in trying to make myself presentable, then traveling downtown, would result in pictures that I would find acceptable. Jennifer could Photoshop me, of course, but what’s the use of documenting the real pregnant me, then making me slimmer?

So today my 5-year-old son took on the role of photographer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t fully understand the zoom lens on my digital camera, and, unfortunately, he’s very blunt: He told me flat-out that he coudn’t fit my entire belly into a picture because it’s too big.

Here are two of his images, demonstrating that, no, he couldn’t figure out to how to fit all of me, in my pregnant glory, into the frame. But now I have pictures of this pregnancy, I look like the real me, and the pics were free.

Me, 36 Weeks and 6 Days Pregnant

My 47-Inch Waist