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.

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

Last Friday I was released from complete bed rest for the second time, so, after my 36-week appointment, my son and I went to a local pancake house for breakfast. After eating, we made a trip to the ladies’ room—my second home due to “pregnancy bladder”—and a woman who’d just come out of one of the stalls asked, “When are you due?”

“I have four more weeks,” I sighed. “I’m just huge.”

“I knew it,” she laughed. “My boyfriend and I saw you walk in, and he was sure you were going to have your baby right in the restaurant, but I told him that Americans get big, and I said, ‘I bet she’s eight months,’ and you are.”

This morning, I drove downtown to my in vitro fertilization (IVF) clinic to donate my leftover medications, and, as I got out of my car, I announced to the parking attendant, who remembered me, “I’m a success story.”

Taking a look, he asked, “Twins?”

But tonight my bulging belly was invisible.

My husband got great news today, so he took our son and me out to dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. Because there weren’t any close parking spots, he dropped us off in front of the restaurant.

“We’ll sit on the bench and wait for you,” I said.

“No, honey, you go up.”

Of course, due to my overactive bladder, I needed to use the ladies’ room as soon as I’d given the hostess our last name. A few minutes later, when my son and I walked back into the lobby, my husband was waiting.

He said, “You know, I asked the hostess if she’d seated you two by asking if she remembered a little boy with white hair. And she said, ‘Is your wife pregnant?’ It never even occurred to me to describe you as pregnant, when it’s the most obvious way to identify you. Isn’t that weird?”

Weird? I’m going with flattering. Because it means that regardless of how much I have physically changed in the past year—due to two rounds of IVF medications, followed by months of progesterone suppositories and progesterone-oil injections; emotional eating because I lost one of the twins I was carrying; pregnancy weight gain; and the loss of muscle tone associated with bed rest—my husband still sees ME, inside of this increasingly alien body.

I measured my waist tonight, and, at belly button level, it’s expanded to 47 inches. But my husband doesn’t always notice it, because when he looks at me, he still sees ME.

I was pregnant with twin boys for almost nine weeks, yet I truly thought that I had moved past actively mourning Baby B, whom I lost in September.

From then until mid-January, when my placenta-previa-related pre-term bleeding led to bed rest, I didn’t get emotional when I babysat for 4-year-old twin boys once a week, plus drove them to and/or from school three days a week.

As a room parent, I was able to organize bowling playdates for my son’s preschool class—in which one, two or three sets of twins would participate—without losing it afterward.

Just a week and a half ago, a friend—whose post-IVF HCG numbers convinced us that two embryos had implanted—was concerned about my loss of Baby B, expressing fear that discussing her twin pregnancy might be difficult for me.

I responded, “Thanks for being sensitive about the loss of Baby B, but I’m really fine. I get sad sometimes, usually when sometime asks me if I’m pregnant with twins because I’m so big, but otherwise I’m just focusing on the little man I’m carrying. I think I’m coping because I have perspective: There are so many who never have children—or lose one late in a pregnancy, or even at birth. My loss was early, and I’m still pregnant, so I have something positive to focus on. So, hearing about you doesn’t upset me at all. You and your husband have been through hell and back and deserve all good things with this pregnancy.”

But yesterday afternoon, I took my 5-year-old son to a birthday party in which parents were invited to stay and socialize. As I sat in a cushy chair, I watched 8-month-old triplets—identical twin boys and their sister—play on the floor below me, doing tummy time, rolling around and biting on toys for two hours, without crying.

Witnessing these babies and their contentment, for they amuse and entertain each other, made me realize that I’d somehow separated the older twins, the ones I see on a regular basis, from my loss. Maybe this was my subconscious emotional-survival technique.

But the combination of seeing multiples who are babies, two of whom are boys, which is what I would have experienced, plus being sleep-deprived and hormone-fueled did me in. I walked into my house post-party, cried, then took a much-needed two-hour nap.

Then last night, I learned that my friend, who lives one block away, is pregnant with twin boys, and the death of Baby B hit me again for I had just been exposed, hours earlier, to what I will never experience as a parent.

My friend said that, when she revealed her pregnancy to her work colleagues, one was particularly affected: The woman who had lost a twin 18 years ago.

Obviously, the lesson I need to learn here is, bottom line, a mother doesn’t ever “get over” losing a child. I need to remind myself that it’s natural to mourn, that I need to stop feeling guilty as if mourning makes me selfish considering that I am still carrying a child. Being pregnant with one son doesn’t invalidate the loss of his brother. I can be thankful for what I’ve been given, while simultaneously feeling a sense of loss for what could have been.

I believe the other issue playing into my emotional instability is that I know too much to feel confident that I’ll be bringing a baby home at all. So, as I prepare for my baby’s arrival, I leave on price tags and keep items in their boxes, just in case I need to return it all.

It’s a terrible feeling, this inability to relax and enjoy nesting, as most other women do. And the loss of my little Baby B—for reasons I will never know—reinforces that there are no guarantees. I hate that there are no guarantees.

It literally feels like he’ll be able to kick his way out, so I’ve been worried about the damage done to my cervix, whether funneling, thinning, or dilating. But, apparently, my cervix is super-strong in this pregnancy, unlike when I was pregnant with my 5-year-old son and dilated starting at 27 weeks of pregnancy. During a trans-vaginal ultrasound, also conducted on Thursday, the technician said my cervix is still 5 cm long and closed.

The trans-vaginal ultrasound also confirmed that I still have marginal placenta previa, so Dr. E, the doctor I saw Thursday, said I will remain on partial bed rest.

I haven’t had any placental bleeding since the first day of my 26th week of pregnancy, which is phenomenal, but Dr. E said that as I get closer to my due date, I will have more and more contractions, which could jumpstart the bleeding again. Therefore, if I see any red blood, I need to travel immediately to labor and delivery, so the baby and I can be monitored.

Thankfully, at this stage of my pregnancy, the infant survival rate is at least 95%, plus my little guy has benefitted from steroids given to me during my pre-term bleeding episode, so his lungs will be mature soon, if they aren’t already.

Dr. E confirmed that, if the placenta previa condition continues, I will have to have a C-section to deliver. She said specifically that the practice will not even attempt vaginal deliveries when the placenta is within 2 cm of the cervix because of the possibility of hemorrhaging, which could be detrimental to both me and the baby. Considering that there has been little to no change since placenta previa was diagnosed during my 13-week ultrasound, 20 weeks ago, I don’t hold out much hope of it rectifying itself.

The ultrasound technician said that the fact that my baby boy is breech isn’t considered a problem until the 36th week, but if he and my placenta stay where they are, they’re conspiring for a C-section, in my opinion.

The two ultrasounds also showed that my amniotic fluid level is ideal for this stage of the pregnancy; my baby’s development, with the exception of his size, is within his age range; and, in addition to his large body, he has a big head. My 5-year-old son has an off-the-charts-size head too, but it doesn’t look out of the ordinary, and, as I tell my son, he has a big head to house his very big brain.

As of Thursday’s weigh-in, I’ve gained 60 pounds since starting to try to get pregnant via in vitro fertilization (IVF). I’m unbelievably uncomfortable, and the combination of my asthma and my reduced lung capacity is making my days and nights difficult. I have no energy, so I told Dr. E that, even if she’d told me to stop bed rest and be wild and free for the final weeks of my pregnancy, I can’t handle more than modified bed rest as it is. (Weeks ago, I was tested for anemia, which some of my readers thought could be the reason for my complete exhaustion, but no anemia here.)

I return to the Center for Maternal and Fetal Health in two weeks, the first day of my 35th week of pregnancy, for another doctor’s appointment, a non-stress test to evaluate my baby’s heart rate, and ultrasounds to check my amniotic fluid level and placenta. Starting at 36 weeks, I will have an appointment every Friday for the duration of this pregnancy.

As I become more and more comfortable with the age, size and strength of my baby boy, I am becoming more and more nervous about having a C-section. But I keep reminding myself that five years ago, as a result of two botched epidurals, I endured 17 ½ hours of hell to give birth vaginally to my 9 pound 7 ounce son. So, while an incision through my stomach and uterus won’t be fun to recover from, it might be easier than my prior childbirth experience. And either way, I know that my body will have no long-term memories of the pain, while I will have the joy of loving another child.

Other friends have promised to give or loan me more: Still to come are a bassinet, a baby swing, a bouncer, more clothes, and who knows what other surprises.

Yet this is just a tiny part of the generosity that’s been shared with my husband, my son and me during our two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles and subsequent high-risk pregnancy.

My friends watched my son last spring and summer while I underwent two IVF egg retrievals and embryo transfers.

Three friends loaned me maternity clothes, since I gave all of those away too.

A friend cried with me on the sidewalk between our houses when I learned, after my first ultrasound, I was likely losing one of our twin boys, Baby B.

Weeks later, when we found out that Baby B had indeed died, other friends sent e-mails letting me know they were thinking of us—and would help in any way.

When I was hospitalized in mid-January for placenta-previa-related, pre-term bleeding, five friends visited me in the hospital, bringing me goodies—lotion for my super-dry hands, trashy magazines galore, and Coke®, since I’m allowed to have a little bit of caffeine.

In the 6 ½ weeks I’ve been home on bed rest—first full and now partial—friends have brought over dinner and also checked in with me every time they go to the grocery store or Target®, then dropped off and put away my requested purchases.

Friends have come to my house to keep me company when I started to feel too isolated.

They’ve offered to drive me to and from my doctor’s appointments.

During yet-another bleeding scare, a friend took me to the hospital, then stayed with me while my uterus, cervix, baby and I were thoroughly evaluated. She was free to do this because another friend watched her kids specifically so she could be with me.

Friends have taken my son for playdates with their children, so he wouldn’t be house-bound with me too frequently.

One friend has driven my son to every Thursday morning soccer class, while she and another friend switch off hosting post-soccer play- and lunch-dates until afternoon preschool starts.

Two friends, with whom I’ve carpooled the entire school year, now handle all the driving shifts to and from preschool five afternoons a week.

Two friends organized a manicure and pedicure outing for the three of us, driving me to and from the salon.

And so many others have offered to help, from my son’s preschool teacher to acqaintences who’ve heard I’m on bed rest.

It’s been a long, hard year for my family, but our loss and stresses have been tempered by how much support and love we have from our friends.

I strongly believe that love makes a family, and our recent experiences demonstrate that, while we have a nuclear family of five (my husband, my two stepsons, ages 15 and 14, my son, age 5, and me), we are part of a much larger extended family of loyal friends.

Thank you to them all…

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.

Tonight, I’m going to vent about “fat talk.”  

First, I have to admit that my family’s comfort with “fat talk” has been generated by me—by my jokes about my extreme weight gain.  Because I am self-deprecating, my family members assume I am comfortable with them being me-deprecating.  And, while I usually am, laughing along with the teasing, I hit my limit in the past few days.

Of course, being on bed rest for three weeks has minimized my sense of humor, while maximizing my size.  My bra size is now a 38E—an E, for God’s sake—up from its normal 34C.  And, the frightening thing is that, sitting atop my massive pregnant belly, my breasts actually look petite.

I am so happy to be pregnant at 41, elderly in the reproductive sense—as in literally reproductively elderly, as my diagnosis is “Elderly Multigravida with Antepartum Condition or Complication.” 

I am so happy to be pregnant considering my “antepartum complication or condition,” which is my uterine abnormality, the result of my mother unknowingly taking the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) for nausea when she was pregnant with me.

But, while I feel so blessed to be pregnant, it’s not easy to live with the significant, body-altering side effects of the medications necessary for my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, one of which is weight gain.  Nor is it easy to live with the fact that the initial IVF weight gain is then topped with the necessary pounds of pregnancy.

But, because of the loss of one of my twins in September, I added unnecessary pounds through emotional eating in my attempt to cope with the death of my son, whose tiny body was still inside me.  I added unnecessary pounds as I hoped that my body would absorb him, rather than abort him, so that my other son would be saved. 

So, I have gained well beyond the recommended amount of pregnancy weight.  I’m not only pregnant, but also fat.  I know it.  My family knows it.  But, I don’t want to hear “fat talk” anymore.

My nearly 5-year-old son is the main perpetrator.  Sunday night, while we were lying in bed talking before he went to sleep, he asked if would put my arm around him.  I did.  After 30 seconds, he grunted and said, “Can you move your arm?  It’s too heavy.  I think it weighs 188 pounds.”

Monday, out of the blue, he said, “Mama, you’re a big, fat ninja.”

I know why he called me big and fat, so I asked, “Why do you think I’m a ninja?”

“Because you’re fat,” he giggled.

To me, fat would be the least likely adjective to use with ninja, but, then again, I’m not 4.

Yesterday, at bedtime, he started singing, “You’re a fat ninja.  You’re a fat ninja.”

Today, he announced that we were going to play “dinosaurs vs. people.” 

“Who gets to be the dinosaur?” I asked, because he has a remote-controlled dinosaur robot that can kick the asses of any of his toy people.

“You do,” he said.  “Because he’s fat.”

“Nice,” I responded sarcastically, knowing full well that he thought I should have the fat dinosaur because I’m fat.  “Fat dinosaur should be matched with fat Mama” makes complete sense in his young mind.

Hearing my tone, he tried to recover.  “Well, his tail is skinny.”

So, tonight, when he once again complained about the intolerable weight of my arm around him, I decided to have “the talk”— as in “the talk about fat talk.”

I started by asking him how he’d feel if people called him fat. 

He said, “If I was fat, and people called me fat, I would punch them in the face.”

“Do you want me to punch you in the face?” I teased.

He giggled.

I explained, “I know I’m fat.  But, after the baby is born, I will lose the weight.  And, until then, it sometimes hurts my feelings when you call me fat.  I know it’s true, but sometimes it hurts my feelings to be told the truth every day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, it’s OK.  You didn’t know it hurt my feelings.  But, now that you do, can you please not call me fat anymore?”

“OK.”

We’ll see how tomorrow goes…

My son, now nearly 5, is the youngest in our family by nine years and, as such, is obviously the least emotionally mature.    

Whatever he feels, he shows. 

When he’s happy, this personality trait is spectacularly fun for us.  He smiles and giggles.  He tries desperately to make us laugh, telling jokes, making silly faces and contorting his body in bizarre dance moves.  He’s unbelievably affectionate, giving kisses and hugs freely, along with ample “I love yous.”

Yet, when he’s sad or angry or lonely, we need to watch out. 

He lashes out verbally—with “I hate him” or “I hate them”—when his feelings are hurt, like when his older brothers, ages 14 and 15, won’t play with him, or, when playing a video game not appropriate for a 4-year-old to even watch, they forbid him from entering their room. 

He cries when he will be separated from those he loves, like when his brothers have to leave our home to go back to their mother’s or when his Daddy will be out-of-town for a business trip. 

He has complete meltdowns when his brothers are here, and he’s the only one who has to go to bed. 

He’s grumpy when he’s tired—or simply doesn’t get his way. 

When he’s mad at anyone or anything these days, he proclaims that he’s “starting to hate everything.”

His behavior is age-appropriate, yet I feel guilty because he has had—and continues to have—more than his share of loss.  In September, his 15-year-old brother, who suffers from dyslexia, went away to a school with a special program for dyslexics, so he’s only seen him twice in the past five months.  Every other weekend and on Monday nights, he is ecstatic when his 14-year-old brother lives with us, only to feel abandoned at the tail-end—every other weekend and every Monday night.  He was beyond thrilled to be a big brother to two baby brothers, then sad when we lost one of the twins.  He was upset when, two weeks ago, I was hospitalized for four days due to pre-term labor. 

Our son’s sense of loss and resulting sadness related to his brothers’ visitation schedule led my husband and me, at the ripe old ages of 43 and 40, to start trying to have another child.  After two in vitro fertilization (IVF) attempts, we were successful.  Our son is due on April 23, so our 4-year-old still has almost three months to wait to have a sibling who will never have to leave our home.  I am literally counting the days…

However, I’ve learned that, while my son acts sad and mad and lonely at home, he’s the epitome of sunshine when he’s at preschool every Monday through Friday afternoon.  His head teacher says he has “such a good outlook on life” and that she’s “never heard anything negative come out of his mouth—except for some Star Wars stuff.”  When asked to specify what is special about each student for a book I wrote as a fundraiser for my son’s class, the two assistant teachers said that what makes my son special are “his happiness and love for life” and “his tender eyes and cheerfulness.”

So, when he’s able to be social, he’s jubilant.

Tonight, while we were eating dinner, I told him that I was going to write my blog about how happy he is at school.

“I’m not happy,” he said.

“Well, then why do your teachers all say that you’re so happy every day at school?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“So, you’re not happy, even though everyone says you’re the happiest kid in your class.”

“It’s because I’m always laughing,” he admitted.

“But you’re not happy.”

Nodding in agreement, he said, “I’m just laughing all the time at my friends,” then demonstrated how he smiles at his friends when they’re funny.

Even though my happy-go-lucky-when-in-public guy won’t admit that he loves being around 14 other kids at school, I know that he’s smiling and laughing and loving learning for three hours every afternoon.  And, maybe being so energetically happy out in the world is one of the reasons he is such a grump at home.

Regardless, when his baby brother is born less than three months from now, he will be more content at home.  While he will still miss his older brothers, his loneliness will lessen because of the 24/7 love from his baby brother. 

This morning, he announced that he and I are going to take care of the baby, because “Daddy has to go to work,” and his brothers “aren’t here very often.” 

He’s declared to my husband, who is unsure of the name our son wants for the baby, “Well, it’s my baby.”

So, while I know that our little man will always share his most negative feelings and behaviors with us, I can’t wait until his baby brother’s presence eases the feelings of loss and abandonment that are now so prevalent.  I can’t wait until he’s almost as happy at home as he is at school. 

I’m counting the days…

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.