{Originally published on We Make Three}

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I’ve been married to
Michael for nearly 20 years. This man saved me. I’m not kidding. And I
will always love him for that.

I was only 20 when we got married. Even at that young age, I
realized that I had everything to learn about life. We both understood
that starting a family would wait while we developed ourselves, our
careers, and focused on our marriage. We had nothing for our start
together other than the china and crystal from our wedding registry.
Not even a couch. It was a meager beginning, but still a heady time for
us. We had nothing but each other and our independence. I love how we
started our relationship, and I love that we sacrificed and made our
way without any help.

Life happened to us. We bought our home, built our careers, and
enjoyed our lives together. We got our dog, a little Yorkie I named
Chester, who became the perfect vessel for my maternal outpourings. We
talked about kids. A lot. Michael is very practical. Pragmatic. He
looks at the facts and makes very accurate assessments. We discussed
the commitment, sacrifice, and change in our lifestyle that having a
family would require. We were ready.

Around year eight of marriage, we made the decision to start trying.
Coming from a long line of extremely fertile women, I assumed that we
would be pregnant right away. I have five siblings, my dad comes from a
family of 15 kids, my mom from 10. And on Michael’s side, there are
similar examples of proliferative child-bearing.

I had spent so many years trying not to get pregnant that
it never occurred to me that it wouldn’t happen right away. The first
six months passed. Nothing. I started reading. I bought the right
books, and bought a basal thermometer. I started getting neurotic about
becoming pregnant. I checked my temperature each morning before I got
out of bed. I bought the $200 ovulation kit. I was in control, and if
we had decided to be pregnant, it was going to happen.

But it didn’t.

Five years went by. In that time, we saw a fertility specialist. I
had that horrible dye test that was so painful, I could barely drive
myself home. The tests showed that I was fine. Michael was fine. But
still nothing.

I always said that I didn’t want to turn into someone who couldn’t go to baby showers. So I gave up.

Maybe God was saying that I had enough. I really didn’t need
anything more. I couldn’t ask for a happier marriage. Maybe we could
just travel, enjoy each other, and grow old together. I decided to be
fine with that.

Nearly six months passed. Michael had taken on the project of
doubling the size of our home. After a couple years of blood, sweat and
tears, the results had surpassed my expectations. We were thrilled and
decided to have a party in November to kick off the holidays and
celebrate our new home.

Then it was the beginning of December. Somehow the time had slipped
through my fingers. Did November pass without my period? I’ll never
forget that moment when it dawned on me, driving down the highway, that
in all the excitement, I had forgotten to notice. “You better take a
test” Michael said.

So I did.

All I can say is that it felt like an out of body experience when I
watched that second line appear. I read the directions again. No. It
couldn’t be. I stared at the stick in disbelief, blinked, and stared
some more. I don’t remember exactly how I told Michael, or what I said.
I was in a fog. But I do remember asking him to buy me another test to
be sure. And then I sent him out for a third. After a call to my OBGYN
who assured me that false positives are highly unlikely, I finally let
myself start to believe.

I was giddy. In fact, I still am. I can’t believe I’m a mom. I savor
it. During my pregnancy, I had two requests of Michael: I didn’t want
to know the sex of the baby, and I wanted to be the first to hold the
baby for as long as I wanted after he/she was born.

I loved being pregnant. I was excited when I had morning sickness
and read that it meant my hormone levels were healthy. I loved watching
my belly grow huge. But most of all, I loved feeling the baby move. I
was lying on the couch watching Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner when I saw
the baby’s foot move across my stomach for the first time.

I loved my birth experience. I actually enjoyed labor (I had an
epidural). I will never forget the adrenalin rush when our baby emerged
into the world and the nurse exclaimed: “You got your Jacob!” Those
words I will never forget. I play them over in my head.

There is nothing that could ever touch what I felt in that moment.

I could stumble into Warren Buffet money. But having this little boy is the windfall of my life.

Happy Birthday little Jake Man.

Editors Pick by Deb at Missives From Suburbia.  Myra’s story about becoming pregnant with her son brought back so many memories of trying to get pregnant with my first child.  When she sent it to me, she said she hoped it would be inspirational to anyone dealing with infertility.  I hope it is, too. Click over and check out Myra’s
archives. While you’re there, read the original post and its comments, then subscribe to her feed.