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.

He admitted to me two weeks ago, following the night that I’d been afraid I was in pre-term labor, that he’d been up since 1 a.m. because, “You were on my side of the bed, and you’re big.”

“Why didn’t you push me back onto my side?”

Incredulous, he answered, “I thought you were in labor. I wasn’t going to touch you. Instead, I lay there for two hours, then just got up.” (This is where I need to mention that my husband’s normal wake-up time, seven days a week, is between 3 a.m. and 3:30 a.m., so he lost out on two to two-and-a-half hours of sleep, not the multitude of hours you would expect.)

And I’m snoring—or something of the sort—every single night. At my request, he’s tried to describe it to me, even mimicking the sound effects. He says it’s not loud, and perhaps it can’t be technically classified as snoring. He can best define it as sounding as if I’m struggling to breathe.

I know from my girlfriends that their husbands snore when they’ve gained weight. So I recognize that my massive weight gain is a major contributor to my snoring, along with my allergy-related asthma, which only surfaces to the extreme when I’m pregnant. I diligently use my inhalers, apparently to no avail when I’m asleep.

I was fat and asthma-riddled when I was pregnant with my 5-year-old son, and my husband, then my boyfriend, stuck by me for the nine months of my pregnancy—a pregnancy made possible via intrauterine insemination (IUI) with anonymous donor sperm.

“Did I snore like this the last time?” I asked him yesterday. “I don’t remember you saying anything about it.”

“Well, back then, I was in love,” he said, then winked.

I know he’s still in love, because, when I’ve offered to sleep on the couch, he proclaims the idea “ridiculous.”

I know he’s still in love, because, to drown out my snoring-like sounds, he uses earplugs, so we can both get ample sleep.

And when I resort to bed-hogging, he does nothing, putting me first.

While I always appreciate my husband, reading a recent Ask Amy column in the February 24 issue of The Chicago Tribune made me pretty much worship him. When you read about the insensitive husband of this pregnant snorer, I’ll bet you’ll join me in my husband-worship too.

Expectant parents need their Z’s

Ask Amy
February 24, 2010

Dear Amy: I am 8 1/2 months pregnant with my second child. I am a stay-at-home mom. Unfortunately, my pregnancy is causing me to snore. My husband wakes me up throughout the night to tell me to stop or get me to change positions.

You could try to open this topic with him during a neutral moment by saying, “I’m sorry about the snoring. I know it’s disruptive. Can you help me think of a solution so we can both get more sleep at night, honey?”

He is my miracle, even according to the reproductive endocrinologist who worked with me during seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles, until I achieved a successful pregnancy—me, a DES (diethylstilbestrol) Daughter with a T-shaped uterus, one-third normal size.

He is my miracle who, although I was dilated at 27 weeks of pregnancy, the result of my DES-induced uterine abnormality, and having contractions at 31 weeks, stayed put until his due date—February 10, 2005. 

He is my miracle who was born in acute respiratory distress because he had aspirated meconium (his first bowel movement, in utero), yet rallied in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and was released four days later, on Valentine’s Day.

He is my miracle who eliminated the issue of my blaring biological clock, enabling my relationship with my brand-new boyfriend, whom I met nine days before getting pregnant via insemination with donor sperm, to progress to marriage and my husband’s adoption of him.

He is my miracle who grew to 9 pounds 7 ounces before birth, stretching my tiny T-shaped uterus into a larger arcuate uterus, making it possible for me to get pregnant during my second in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycle this summer.

My son is my miracle who has contributed to the realization of so many of my dreams.  Yet, while his presence, from conception to now, has been so powerful in my life, he will always be my baby. 

The book Love You Forever (Firefly Books, with its 68^th printing in 2004), written by Robert Munsch and illustrated by Sheila McGraw, communicates this concept more effectively than I ever could.  I’ve had the book for five years, and I have yet to read it without crying. 

The book’s back cover reads:

“A young woman holds her newborn son and looks at him lovingly.  Softly she sings to him:

I’ll love you forever,                                                                                                                                                           I’ll like you for always,                                                                                                                                                     As long as I’m living,                                                                                                                                                        my baby you’ll be.

This is the story of how that little boy goes through the stages of childhood and becomes a man.

It is also about the enduring nature of parents’ love and how it crosses generations.

Love You Forever is a book that both children and adults will enjoy—over and over again.”

Tonight, I feel so emotional about my son turning 5 that I can’t read Love You Forever.  I know I would bawl, and, considering that I’m in my 29^th week of yet another high-risk pregnancy, any physical and/or emotional stress should be avoided.

So, instead, I keep remembering how happy I was when my son was two weeks old, and a nurse at his pediatrician’s office called to confirm an appointment.  I answered the phone, and she asked, “Is this my son’s name’s mom?”

I knew how blessed I was to be able to say yes.

And, today, five years later, I still don’t take my role for granted.  My son is a gift, a miracle, entrusted to me. 

And, my husband, who chose to be his father, feels exactly the same way about him.

My parents had agreed on a name for their expected son, but, having welcomed a daughter, they needed to reconvene.  In their discussions, my mother said she liked the name Kathy, but my father vetoed the name, saying that he had an old girlfriend named Kathy, and he didn’t want her to think he’d named his daughter Kathy because he was still thinking about her.

In the end, they combined the first names of my two grandmothers, so I’m Mary Katherine.  After a year of being called Mary Katherine, a mouthful, my grandmother Katherine, who went by Kay, started shortening my name to Mary Kay in the letters she wrote to my mom, and it caught on.  But, for most of my life, I have been Mary Kaye, for I added the “e” in second grade, I think.

I never liked my name, pining for a normal name exactly like Kathy, the name of two other girls in my grade school class.  My friends and I tried to think of a cool nickname, some combination of Mary and Kaye, but the best we could come up with was Macky, not a viable option.  Of course, it’s never cool to nickname yourself, but, others have called me Mare, Mary and M.  And, for the past 11 years, since moving to Chicago, I’ve been M.K., for, regardless of how many times I introduced myself as Mary Kaye, my new acquaintances and friends would respond by calling me M.K. instead. 

Of course, as an adult, I recognize that Mary Katherine is a beautiful name, especially within an Irish Roman Catholic family.  But, as a kid, I just wanted to blend in with one name, not a double one.

Now that I am a parent, I fully recognize the difficulty of selecting a child’s name. 

When I started trying to get pregnant on my own in 2003, I was absolute in my decision about what my baby’s name would be if he were a boy, and, being single, I didn’t anticipate being faced with any reason to change my mind.

I had picked a strong, traditional, blatantly boy name that is not only my father’s, but also one of my four brothers’.  It has three variations, which I felt would accommodate not only whatever my future son’s personality would be like, but also his preferences as he grew from little boy, to big boy, to teenager, to man. 

But, nine days before I got pregnant via insemination with donor sperm, I met the man who is now my husband.  He was divorced with two sons, then ages 8 and 10.  And, his oldest son is named the exact same name I had chosen. 

At my 20-week ultrasound, I found out that I was having a son, which presented a dilemma:  I loved this man I was dating, and we believed we had a future together, so, if I stood my ground on my son’s name, we would have ended up with two sons with the same name, as in, “Hi, this is our son Bobby, and this is our other son Bobby.” 

Believing in our relationship, I gave up my first-choice name, and, after looking through a baby-name book, latched on to John, which means “God is gracious,” because I felt so blessed to finally be pregnant after seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles.  But, recognizing the complications involved with naming my son John Kennedy, I decided to name him Sean, the Irish form of John, which has the same meaning.

The day after making this decision, I called one of my brothers to wish him a happy birthday.  He asked if I had come up with any names, now that I knew I was having a boy.  I told him I’d decided on Sean. 

“That’s the name of my second son,” he said, although his wife wasn’t pregnant.  “Sean Ryan.”

“Oh,” I said.  I was going to name my baby Sean Patrick.”

Not wanting to create family conflict, I gave up on Sean.  FYI:  My brother and his wife never had that second son, but two daughters instead. 

But, regardless, the name I ultimately chose for my son, a name suggested by my then-boyfriend/now-husband, is perfect for him.  Apparently, it’s the perfect name for a lot of little boys, for, of the seven boys in my son’s preschool class, three have his name.  Yet, when I decided to name him, I’d only known one guy, a nice guy from high school, with the name.  Oh well… 

Pregnant with another son, the fourth in my husband’s and my blended family, the naming issue now is much more complicated.  While my husband, then my boyfriend, was hands-off when I was trying to select a name for my son five years ago, as this baby’s biological father, he is actively involved with the process. 

Two of our three sons, now ages 15, 14 and almost 5, are either begging or demanding to be able to name the baby.  Our 15-year-old wants to name the baby Vlad, which, according to him, is a “sexy vampire name.”  Our 4-year-old is adamant that the baby’s name will be Luke, a downgrade from his initial request of Luke Skywalker.

My problem is the same as one faced by my father in 1968, when I was born, yet it is much larger in magnitude, for I dated from age 15 to age 36, 21 years before meeting my husband.  My husband’s suggested the name he thinks is best, and I’ve told him that’s the name of my former fiancé, which is, for me, the one name that is absolutely off limits.  After all, if we’d a daughter, we would never have named her the same name as his ex-wife.    

My husband has suggested another name, and I’ve stated that it’s the name of another serious boyfriend.  And, I have six more, if I go through my dating history, only counting those boys or men with whom I was serious.

And, let’s not get into the names of my former male pets, all of which are traditional human names…

Limiting the decision to just my husband and me, the parents of this baby I’m carrying, prior associations with names can rule some out.  Then, of course, we both have personal preferences, liking some names and despising others.  While I love the name Luke, for example, having selected it as one of my final choices for my 4-year-old son, my husband doesn’t. 

At least we agree that we’ll name our son a traditional, obviously boy name.  And, considering I haven’t had any additional pre-term bleeding in almost three weeks, giving us hope that our baby boy will be born at term, we may have ample time to figure this baby naming thing out.

I am not a petite woman:  I’m between 5’8” and 5’9”, but I always had a tiny waist.  One of my proudest moments during my eating-disordered years was when a woman got on an elevator with me, took one look at my belted mid-section and asked, “What size is your waist—16 inches?”             

Six years ago, after seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles, five of which were medicated, I ballooned, especially in my waist—my primary injection site—where I could pinch several inches.  I met my now-husband in the midst of my seventh cycle, and I complained one night about how big I was—with nothing to show for it.  He called me “Rubenesque.”  Obviously, I married him.  

With so much extra weight on me upfront, with the inability to work out because it would reduce blood flow to my T-shaped uterus, and with my dedication to overcoming my previously eating-disordered life by eating whenever I was hungry, I gained another 50 pounds during my pregnancy. 

For the last few months, I was barraged by one question, asked by the man in the high-risk pregnancy office whose sole job was to draw blood from pregnant women to passersby on the sidewalks and in stores:  “Are you having twins?”

And, over and over, I would smile weakly and reply, “No, just one very big baby.”

At the tail-end of my pregnancy, my stomach was so large that even my sweet husband, then my boyfriend, gasped when he walked into the bathroom to find me soaking in the tub.  He apologized and said he felt so sorry for me because I looked so uncomfortable.  And, I was. 

But, my son weighed a whopping 9 pounds 7 ounces, and, with breastfeeding alone, I lost the rest of the weight.  My body has never been the same, but that’s why Spanx® were invented.

With this pregnancy, I was prepared for the impact of the medications, especially because the doses for my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles were so much higher than they were when I was doing IUIs.  I gained 15 to 20 pounds pre-pregnancy, then was pregnant with twins, then ate my way into numbness when Baby B had no heartbeat in the eighth week. 

Right now, I’m up a total of 45 pounds, and my pregnancy books irritatingly say that a healthy weight gain at 25 weeks of pregnancy is 14 to 16 pounds. 

My stomach is again so big that the comments have started, but this time I hate being asked if I’m pregnant with twins, because I was, but lost one.  And, even though I’ve accepted the loss, I don’t want to be reminded of it daily.

This morning, as I was lying on the couch with my almost-5-year-old son, he announced that my stomach is as big as a mountain, then he had G.I. Joe march across it. 

This afternoon, I was asked twice, “Are you absolutely sure there is only one baby in there?”  

From my fourth to 24^th weeks of pregnancy, I’ve had 10 ultrasounds.  I’m positive there is only one baby left in here.

Then, tonight, while we were talking before bed, I teased my son, telling him I would tickle-torture him or nibble off his cute toes if he didn’t listen to the book I was reading.  This is a game we play often, in which I tease him, and he insists, “You’re kidding!”  Then, I admit that, of course, I’m kidding, because I would never hurt him.

But, tonight, instead of his standard “You’re kidding,” he blurted, “But you’re a giant woman.”

A giant woman…

He’s lucky I didn’t nibble off his cute toes in retaliation, because even if you’re 4, you should never, ever comment on how big any woman is, pregnant or otherwise.

Tomorrow, I’ll have his Daddy explain to him that, if he must comment on my size, the correct word isn’t giant; it’s Rubenesque.

Infertility is a medical problem for which only 15 U.S. states provide health insurance coverage. This renders the majority of this country’s infertile population—10% of the overall population, according to Resolve: The National Infertility Association—unable to pursue treatment.  (For more information about infertility coverage—and the lack thereof—in the United States, see my post, Giving Thanks for Infertility Coverage, at http://www.mkkennedy.com/2009/07/giving-thanks-for-infertility-coverage/)

For those of us with infertility coverage, as I had when I underwent seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles six years ago, and as my husband and I had when we did IVF twice last spring and summer, we still have out-of-pocket costs to cover.  For those without health coverage for infertility or those who have exceeded the often-low limits of the coverage they have, deep pockets are required.  (For more information on IVF costs, read my posts, High-Cost IVF Meds at http://www.mkkennedy.com/2009/07/high-cost-ivf-meds/ and Uninsured IVF Costs Unaffordable for Most at  http://www.mkkennedy.com/2009/07/uninsured-IVF-costs-unaffordable-for-most/)

In these latter cases, those suffering from infertility need to determine how much to invest in treatment, for which there is no guarantee of a child, versus how much to save for adoption, if that is an option they’d like to pursue if treatment isn’t successful.  But, most of us, my husband and I included, don’t have the financial resources with which to pursue both infertility treatments and adoption.  So, if medical interventions don’t work, we’re left with failure, rather than the hope of parenting a child through adoption.

The infertile face flat-out discrimination in that their medical conditions don’t automatically enable them to have the medical insurance necessary for treatment.  They face financial ruin as they pursue motherhood and fatherhood out of their own pockets.  They suffer through invasive, embarrassing, hormone-filled, grueling medical procedures, which are physical and emotional torture.  (Many of my July posts address the debilitating effects of my second IVF cycle.)

But, one of the worst facets of infertility is the isolation, for family members, friends and colleagues are often too uneducated or uncomfortable to know how to provide much-needed support.  Today, Tracy directed her friends to Vita Alligood’s article on the Resolve website, www.resolve.org, titled “Infertility Etiquette,” so they will know how to react to her and others in the infertility camp.  The piece is a must-read for anyone who knows anyone suffering from infertility.  To read it, click on: http://www.facebook.com/l/7d71a;www.resolve.org/site/PageServer?pagename=lrn_ffaf_ie

Last, on Christmas Day, I asked for prayers for Tracy and her seven embryos.  Today, she needs prayers more than ever, as she faces the future, tapped out financially, emotionally and physically.  I am going to pray that she will someday become a mother, for, although life isn’t fair, any child, biological or adopted, would be blessed to be hers.

The headline of the first story—actually just a blurb—is “Couple charged with battery and unlawful restraint of girl.”  In Shaumburg, Illinois, a couple, Najeh Shukri and Margarita Lopez, was arrested for tying up a 7-year-old girl, beating her with a belt, and placing the child “in a bathtub for five hours as part of the punishment for stealing candy on Oct. 30.”  This little girl kept quiet, protecting her tormentors, whom I assume are her parents.  It was only after “the girl’s leg bruises caught the attention of school authorities who called the police” that she admitted the abuse.

The title of the second article, written by Brian Cox, Special to the Tribune, is “Maine Township woman pleads guilty in daughter’s beating death.  Prosecutors agree to not seek death penalty.”  On March 13, 2007, 5-year-old Melanie Beltran, who had “suffered years of beatings and cruel punishments,” vomited.  Her mother, Mila Petrov, now 32, got so angry that “she struck her daughter in the back of the head, causing her head to hit a wall, and, when Melanie denied getting sick, Petrov threatened to put hot sauce on her daughter’s tongue for lying.”

Petrov then took her daughter into another room and hit her again, causing her head to strike the floor…  Petrov told police that Melanie was not breathing and that she did not have a heartbeat, but that she did not immediately call an ambulance because she feared she would get into trouble.”

…Instead of calling for help, Petrov quickly cleaned her house while her daughter lay dead or dying on the floor.”

…Petrov eventually called her husband, Carlos Beltran, and asked what she should do, and he told her to call an ambulance.”

In June, Beltran, 34, pleaded guilty to aggravated battery of a child in Melanie’s death and was sentenced to 20 years in prison.

Mila Petrov, who was charged with first-degree murder, will avoid the death penalty because she pled guilty.  Prosecutors “now are asking that Petrov be given an extended prison term of 60 to 100 years when she is sentenced Dec. 10…”

To read the full article, see http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chi-petrov-18nov18,0,4140092.story

I am a woman who has faced infertility, who has undergone a total of nine cycles of intrauterine insemination (IUI) and in vitro fertilization (IVF), who has suffered from embryo implantation problems, a miscarriage and, two months ago, the death of one of my unborn twins, who is being absorbed by my body while I remain pregnant with his brother.  Having strived and struggled to be a parent, I can’t put into words how sickened I am that there are other parents who not only don’t appreciate the gifts they’ve been given, but also torture and kill their children.

First, I don’t understand how these “adults” hurt their children in their fits of rage. 

Second, I can’t contemplate how, day after day, when they bathe and dress their children and face the damage they’ve inflicted—the bruises, the burns, the blood—they don’t take immediate action to protect their children, to get themselves and their innocent offspring help. 

And, last, I don’t understand how these monsters find each other, for, in both of these cases, the abuse was ongoing and perpetuated by both parents. 

How can two adults jointly participate in tying up their child, in hitting her with a belt, in forcing her to sit in a bathtub for five hours because she sneaked some Halloween candy?

How can two adults conspire to abuse their child and to hide its aftermath, year after year after year, until their beatings escalate to murder?

I will never understand because I believe that children should be the priority, and, if anyone is not prepared to make that sacrifice, that person isn’t cut out to be a parent. 

Parents who are selfish won’t tolerate getting up in the middle of the night, multiple times a night, for months or even years.  (My son still yells for me when he has nightmares or simply wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s almost 5.)  Parents who are selfish won’t be able to stand a newborn’s constant crying and spitting up, a toddler’s temper tantrums, the sleepness nights when a child is sick and, yes, maybe vomiting.  They won’t be able to handle potty training and bedwetting and whining for a present during every trip to the grocery store—or any other store, for that matter.

Mila Petrov was so selfish, so self-absorbed, so unable to make anyone but herself a priority that, when she found that her 5-year-old daughter Melanie wasn’t breathing, that her daughter’s heart had stopped beating, she left her to die rather than call 911.  She left her daughter to die because she was worried about getting in trouble.

I can’t imagine having any other thought besides calling 911 and starting CPR. 

I am a woman who struggled to conceive and carry her 4-year-old son and the son she has inside her.  I am a woman who has sat in infertility support group meetings sponsored by Resolve: The National Infertility Association, in which, among the women in the room, there had been dozens of pregnancies, but not one live birth.  I am a woman who, because of this blog, has heard from woman after woman after woman who wants nothing more than to be a first-time or second-time parent, to shower their child(ren) with unconditional love, with patience, with support, with countless hugs and kisses.  And, while many of these deserving women ultimately become parents, many are never able to overcome their infertility.

Meanwhile, the monsters mentioned in today’s Chicago Tribune not only bear children, but also mutilate and murder them.

I will never understand.

Although I was 10 years old, it had never occurred to me. 

I knew how babies were made because my mother had explained “the birds and bees” to me two years earlier, when I had simply asked what a tampon was.  But, when my parents told me I would be getting a fourth sibling that summer, I never thought of sexual intercourse—or, worse, my mom and dad having sex with each other.  I thought it sounded disgusting.

So, when my classmate “outed” them not only to me, but also to my entire class, I was humiliated. 

Mortified, actually.

Of course, in the late 1970s, assisted reproductive technology (ART) was in its infancy—and shrouded in secrecy—so it was assumed that all parents had sex in order for their children to exist.  But, that didn’t make me any less embarrassed. 

My son, age 4, and my unborn son, due in April, won’t ever have to suffer that same type of humiliation because sex wasn’t involved in their creation. 

With my 4-year-old, I got pregnant as a single-mother-by-choice via intrauterine insemination (IUI) with donor sperm. 

To conceive the son I’m currently carrying, my husband and I had to undergo in vitro fertilization (IVF), so sperm met egg in a lab.  In fact, my husband was on a business trip in Dayton, Ohio, during my embryo transfer, so he wasn’t even in-state when I got pregnant.

But, just because intercourse wasn’t involved with the conception of my sons doesn’t mean there wasn’t an overabundance of love.

All aspiring single-mothers-by-choice have to be damned serious about parenting before embarking on pregnancy attempts.  We have no back-up.  Our emotional and financial resources are it, because, regardless of the goodwill of family members and friends, as single moms, we are the only person fully, completely, totally responsible for our children. 

Single-mothers-by-choice consider every scenario in advance, because we have to.  So, when we are lucky enough to bear children, we’re not resentful about sleeplessness, about thousands of dirty diapers, about the toll our children have taken on our bodies and our social lives.  Our children were desperately wanted, so wanted that we undertook what is considered an alternative lifestyle choice, sometimes to the dismay of family members, friends, and religions.

I’m Roman Catholic with ultra-conservative parents, so my choice to get pregnant on my own was not greeted with enthusiasm, for the Catholic Church approves only of conception via intercourse with a spouse. 

When I met with my parish priest six years ago, I told him that I felt that God was supportive of my decision.  He responded by telling me I needed to be forgiven for my arrogance, for assuming that I knew what God’s reaction was. 

But, I’d rather rely on God, whom I view as loving, than the fallible men at the helm of the Church, men who, over the life of the Church, have routinely changed their minds.  And, I feel that a loving God would approve of my becoming a parent, because He created me, a woman meant to be a mother, a woman whose destiny wouldn’t have been fulfilled if she hadn’t been able to parent a child.  And, He certainly hasn’t punished me; in fact, I’ve experienced a series of miracles ever since. 

I met the perfect man for me nine days before becoming pregnant.  He stayed.  We got married in late 2006, when my son was 21 months old, and my husband subsequently adopted him.  While many DES Daughters are never able to have children, I have a healthy 4-year-old son and am now pregnant again—at age 41, with a uterine abnormality.   

While single women have to be passionate about their decisions to be parents, so do couples suffering from infertility, as my husband and I were.  Having sex to procreate is easy—and free.  Having to resort to infertility treatments is time-consuming, emotionally draining, body-abusing, unbelievably stressful and expensive. 

Infertility treatments require complete dedication to parenting.  Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to tolerate injection after injection, blood draw upon blood draw, countless doctor’s appointments, invasive medical tests and procedures, devastating disappointments, and pregnancy losses.

I find it bizarre that the Catholic Church only advocates conception via intercourse between spouses.  I personally know married couples who not only have unhealthy relationships with each other, but also should never have had children, because their unhappiness spilled into their parenting.  I know married couples whose parenting is based not on the best interests of their children, but on their personal preferences or their needs for their children to be extensions of them.  I know married parents whose love is conditional, whose parenting turns to manipulation and threats if their children aren’t “towing the line.”  I know married couples who have abused their children, both emotionally and physically.

My children were conceived with so much love.  They are and will be parented by a couple, deeply in love and now married, who suffered to conceive them, who will love them unconditionally, and who will nurture them into the men they’re meant to be. 

When our sons are old enough to understand their conception and birth stories, I hope they’re tremendously proud of how much they were wanted—and how much they’ve been loved. 

The fact that no sex was involved will simply be a bonus.

So, he stayed. 

He stayed when I got pregnant nine days after we met. 

He stayed when his friends gave him a perfect mockup of the cover of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, with theirs titled What to Expect When Your Girlfriend’s Expecting Another Man’s Baby.

He stayed when colleagues continued to ask him, “Is your girlfriend still pregnant?”

He stayed when a friend said he’d never heard of any relationship like ours—except on “The Jerry Springer Show.” 

He stayed because we had an unprecedented connection; our relationship was positive, fun, honest and filled with respect; he’s independent and self-confident; he doesn’t make his life decisions based on what other people think; and because I never pressured him.   I was the only woman he’d ever seriously dated who wasn’t expecting him to make her dreams come true.  I was taking responsibility for my own life, for fulfilling my own goals.

And, all of those people who initially teased my husband about his relationship with me recognized that our relationship made him happy, the happiest they’d ever seen him, so they eventually jumped on board, sending me baby gifts although I’d never even met some of them, celebrating with us at our wedding, and proclaiming us one of the best-matched couples they’ve ever known.

Our relationship is old news at this point, so no one is ribbing my husband about his prior choice to date a woman pregnant with the baby of an anonymous sperm donor.  But, this morning, I read the Chicago Tribune Sunday cover story by Kevin Pang, titled, “Are Funny Women Intimidating?” and it made me consider how much flack my husband may be getting because of the content of my blog.

In the “Are Funny Women Intimidating?” feature, Pang outlines, via interviews with more than 20 female improvisers, how their dating lives have been affected by “civilians”—their term for men working outside the improv community—who are intimated or embarrassed by them. 

Pang explains, “Even in 2009, we live among antiquated conventions.  No matter how much we push against what we know feels wrong, gender stereotypes still are embedded in us.” 

Pang interviewed Bernard Beck, associate professor emeritus of sociology at Northwestern University and a stage actor for 30 years, who said, “Even after a long period of transformation of women’s role in society, older, traditional images are still on everyone’s mind.  In relationships, women seem to be pleased more often with somebody who shows power, ingenuity and can put on a good show.  Men seem to more often look for a good audience.  And if the person you want to be an audience to you is instead seizing the limelight, that may not be the bargain you’re looking for.”  To read the full article, log on to www.chicagotribune.com/features/family/chi-1108-funnygirlnov08,0,4559069.story

My blog, operating since July 13, has covered my infertility and treatments, past and present; my confirmation that I am a DES Daughter, a woman whose mother took the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) while pregnant, creating abnormalities of my reproductive organs; my high-risk pregnancy; the loss of our unborn son two months ago; my pregnancy symptoms; and more. 

I have been unflinchingly honest, because I am confident enough, at this stage of my life, to do so—and because, if more women had been comfortable sharing this information, more women, including me, would have been able to make educated decisions about our health, our childbearing plans, our futures.  I, for example, not knowing I was a DES Daughter, took unnecessary estrogen, via the birth-control pill and fertility medications, for almost 20 years, putting myself at increased risk for breast, ovarian, uterine, cervical and vaginal cancers. 

My blog is successful, attracting more and more readers—and extraordinarily loyal readers.  My website and blog have been operational for less than four months, yet 62% of my readers have visited more than once, 40% have visited nine or more times, 31% have 15 or more visits, 21% have more than 25 visits, and 8% have more than 50 visits.  Further, 2% have more than 100 visits, even though I’ve only posted 84 blogs.

I receive e-mails from women undergoing infertility treatments, those who’ve lost their unborn children, those who are scared because they took estrogen during their pregnancies and fear that damage has been done to their children.  They call my blog “inspirational,” “educational,” “informative,” and want to reach out to someone they know understands what they are experiencing.

But, while my blog is attracting more and more positive attention, my target audience is women, not the men who might harass my husband.  So, I asked him if he’s being teased, and he said, “Of course.”  He said he’s asked why he can’t “control his wife.”  He’s ribbed because I’m open about my DES deformities and pregnancy symptoms.

And, he said he just laughs with these men because he is proud of me.

In the final paragraph of the “Are Funny Women Intimidating?” article, author Pang states, “Then came the realization:  This was never about funny women.  It’s about weak men.”

Well said.  Well said—by a strong man…

Strong men are rare, but my husband is one of them.

My hope that more celebrities will be open about having used ART doesn’t extend to the personal, private intricacies—what specific treatment(s) they used, how many cycles they underwent before experiencing success, whether they did pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) of their embryos, how many embryos they transferred, and whether they used donor sperm, eggs or embryos.

I know from personal experience that the decisions to reveal the personal details of ART and/or donor conception, once a child is involved, aren’t easy ones.

When I was 35, I decided to pursue single parenthood via intrauterine inseminations (IUIs) with donor sperm.  I chose to go the sperm-bank route, and my reproductive endocrinologist would only work with Fairfax Cryobank, stating that the sperm bank did more testing on its donors and semen samples than any other facility.  At the time, Fairfax Cryobank only had anonymous donors.  And, at the time, this increased guarantee of the medical health of the donor, sperm and resulting child outweighed, for me, whether the donor was “open” or anonymous.

From the start, I was honest with everyone about how I was trying to get pregnant—with IUIs and anonymous-donor sperm. 

I thought I was doing IUIs simply because that’s one way single girls using donor sperm can get pregnant, if they decide to not go the do-it-yourself-at-home route.  It wasn’t until after my fourth unsuccessful cycle that I found that I required ART to conceive—and might never conceive at all—because of my T-shaped uterus, the result of my exposure to the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) when I was in utero. 

But, even before I knew exactly what my reproductive problem was, I knew the problem was me, for the sperm donor had a proven track record. 

So, try after try, when I didn’t get pregnant, I revealed my disappointments.  I was comfortable sharing what I was going through, and, not having an infertile partner or infertile known sperm donor to protect, I could.

So, I understand why some individuals or couples wouldn’t want to shout, “The problem is my low sperm count,” or “My uterus is deformed,” or “That STD I contracted in college made me infertile,” to the world. 

My body was the reason for my infertility.  And, being single and using an anonymous donor, my decision to reveal my infertility and subsequent treatments in detail was my decision—my decision alone.

Trying to conceive as a single woman, I also shared, from the start, that I was using donor sperm.  I went so far as to announce it to all of my Catholic relatives in my 2003 Christmas letter, feeling that they required some advance notice, rather than the shock of 35-year-old single me getting pregnant.  I knew, if the more negative ones found out after the fact, they would assume that my pregnancy was accidental, regardless of my claims to be a “single mother by choice” who actively pursued pregnancy via donor-sperm insemination. 

So, I was proactive, instead incurring the wrath of those family members who agree with the Church’s stance on using both ART and donor gametes.   

Regardless of the judgment of the Catholic Church and my Catholic relatives, I have never questioned using ART—or my honesty about using it—to conceive my son.  However, after he was born, I did question any future openness about having used donor sperm.  (Not in relation to him, because I’ve told him his special story since his birth.)  It was fear about others’ judgment of my son that led to this questioning.

My fear was precipitated by my now-husband, then my boyfriend, and I moving to the Chicago suburbs to be closer to his two sons.  Shortly before our move, I was told that his ex-wife referred to my son and me as “That woman and her mutt,” and I became terrified that she would reveal how he was conceived, with her negative spin, to people I hadn’t yet met, not giving me the opportunity to decide what to reveal and to whom.

Then, a long-time resident of the area to which we were relocating discouraged me from telling the truth, warning me that people might make fun of my son because he was conceived in a test tube.  He wasn’t, but I was scared about my son being mocked nonetheless.    

So, I struggled with being worried for my son, then concerned that hiding the truth would be, in effect, acting as if there were something wrong with how he was conceived, something that should be concealed in order to protect him.

And, there isn’t.

I knew I likely could get away with telling no one because everyone in our new community would assume that my then-boyfriend/now-husband was the biological father of my son.

But, for my husband and me, living a lie wasn’t an option.  As we’ve gotten to be close to new neighbors and friends, we’ve told them our story, which includes my husband and I meeting nine days before I got pregnant with my son during my seventh IUI. 

And, their responses have ranged from exclaiming that it is “the coolest story they’ve ever heard” to thinking that the fact that my son is donor-conceived is “no big deal at all.”  If anyone has a negative opinion, they haven’t shared it.

But, although we’ve been open, we don’t feel it’s right to make our son, whom my husband adopted after our marriage, the poster child for anything, whether being a donor-conceived child or having white-blonde hair.  He’s only 4.  So, I never mention him by name on this website, and the pictures of him posted are either unidentifiable based on what he looks like now or profile shots that, once again, make him unrecognizable.

But, I’m not a celebrity.  Paparazzi aren’t outside my home, clicking away at every opportunity.  So, my husband’s and my decision to be honest about my son being conceived with donor sperm isn’t the same as celebrities being open about the same.   Their stories would be splashed across every tabloid, online gossip site, television and radio outlet, etc.  And, having their children’s origins on front pages across the globe would be detrimental.

So, from personal experience, I don’t think celebrities have to reveal exactly how they created their miracle families.  But, if they could share that it took ART—and that ART is costly—it will educate aspiring parents that it’s difficult and expensive to outrun your biological clock—even if you’re rich and famous.