Tonight, Big F leaned over, squeezed Middle D and said, “I love you, sweetheart.” And then they snuggled up together on the sofa while I sat next to them with Little L on my lap. And we all watched that insanely insufferable Caillou. What kind of name is Caillou anyway? I mean his sister is Rosie. How come he got the hard to spell, hard to pronounce, easy to get beat up on the playground name?
And while I sat there breathing in all the stinkiness of three boys wearing the remnants of an afternoon outside riding bikes, I tuned out the incessant whining coming from the bald kid on the TV (Why is he bald? Rosie has lovely red hair.) and remembered a post I had read recently over at Mom 101 about fear and pregnancy. Or pregnancy and fear.
I was pretty freaked out when I was pregnant with Middle D, since I found out when Big F had just turned one. They are 20 months apart. But fast forward another 18 months (so, as long as we have waited between seasons of Mad Men), and I found out I was pregnant again. This time freaked out doesn’t begin to describe it. Try devastated, aghast, shocked and 100% not at all happy.
Big F was two and a half. Middle D was less than a year. We had just moved back to Colorado and I had just started a brand new job. Things were moving along very well. We were getting into the swing of our new routine. Until one day I got that feeling. That feeling. And I knew. Having just been pregnant for what felt like three years already, I instinctively knew what I was feeling. I stopped at Target on my way home from work and bought the instant read digital test. But I didn’t tell the husband because if I wasn’t preggers he would just think I was bonkers instead.
I think one drop hit the stick and instantly the word pregnant flashed on the display. And my stomach dropped.
There was no cute reveal to the husband. There was no squeal of joy. There was only the suffocating fear of raising another baby. Of diapers and baby food and clothes. I already had two boys under three, how could I love and protect and nurture a third? Then a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this time it would be a girl.
Please don’t ask me if I know how people make babies. I do, in fact, know how babies are made. What? I do! Despite the fact that I was not allowed to attend Sex Education growing up. Yes, you read that right, I had to sit in the hallway and read while my classmates learned about the birds and the bees and how to protect themselves from STDs. (Hey that rhymed! Middle D would yell right now if he was reading this.) Since this was pre-internet, and let’s be honest, Thank God it was, I learned about sex from my friends and what they told me after class because that is a much better way to get that sort of important information. Duh.
Anyway, fast forward through telling the brand new boss that I immediately got knocked up upon accepting and starting the new job. Fast forward some more–I know the suspense was killing you–Little L turned out to be another boy and not a girl at all. Fast forward a bit more and you find me cuddled up on the couch with three wonderfully different little guys while they laugh at the TV and I laugh at them.
And I can’t imagine our family without Little L despite the fears of raising three boys who will all be in high school (and college) At The Same Time.
So, while I am not ready to say everything happens for a reason due to recent circumstances that just blow and aren’t carrying any silver linings at all, I am willing to say my husband and I got the three little dudes we were meant to have. And I couldn’t imagine it any other way.
