pregnant woman: Hey! I’m pregnant!

friend/relative/co-worker/near-stranger: Congratulations! When are you due?

pregnant woman: On [insert super-specific and official-sounding date here]. We’re really excited!

friend/relative/co-worker/near-stranger: Wow; that’s great. Do you know what you’re having yet?

pregnant woman (according to personality and sarcasm level): We don’t know yet. OR A little boy! OR A little girl! OR Gee, I don’t know; a human baby, we hope.

The thing is, though, that the ‘due date,’ or Estimated Date of Delivery (EDD), or EDC (Estimated Date of Confinement), is an incredibly problematic little piece of information. For most people, it’s a
flat-out guess at the date that would be 38 weeks (266 days) after the date of conception, or (even less reliably) 40 weeks after the first day of the pregnant woman’s last menstrual period. The little
wheel-of-due-dates is based on Naegele’s Rule, which was developed in the 1830s; some studies have suggested that other methods of dating (including Nichols’ Rule and the much more nuanced Mittendorf-Williams Rule) are more accurate.

If you don’t keep track of your ovulation and sexual encounters and can’t remember exactly when you started your last period because you are freakin’ busy or not good with dates, or if you have an unusual or irregular menstrual cycle that means you don’t ovulate when Textbook Female Body ovulates, the due date is more fantasy than reality.

{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.

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Originally published at Coming 2 Terms by Pamela Jeanne

Sometimes I’m asked why we stopped pursuing infertility treatment. For
those looking for easy answers you won’t find them here. There was no
epiphany, no dramatic denouement. We were not driven there by a
deadline or a master plan or even an entirely drained bank account.
(Even today, resisting the ever-beckoning siren song of the fertility
industry’s latest advancements has not been particularly easy.)

Our
move away from treatment was a long, slow often circuitous process that
sometimes led us back like a junkie in need of a fix to the
reproductive endocrinology clinic for one more attempt. A little voice
in my head kept egging me on (no pun intended): just one more IUI; one
more round of acupuncture; one more laparoscopy; one more blood test to
determine if there’s a new factor we hadn’t considered or addressed –
all the while the doctors scratched their heads with no clear
explanation for our infertility, dampening our hopes further that we’d
ever succeed.

Strung-out and wondering how we would possibly
cope with another failed cycle, I started to allow myself to imagine a
life not driven by 28-day cycles and endless associated vigils. With
the benefit of lots of exhaustive and exhausting conversations,
and after consuming huge amounts of reading material on coping with
infertility, my husband and I finally began to loosen the tight grip we
had on our increasingly fragile dream.

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Originally published on For Me For Once

Jackson will be two soon. Samantha will be five in January. They are
the brightest parts of my life (along with my husband), and I can’t
remember my life without them. But I CAN, and do, remember being
pregnant with both of them. The time that I carried each of them was
sweet, fun, exciting, depressing, painful, overwhelming, scary,
life-changing and meaningful, all at once. Some days I look back on my
pregnancies with each of them and think “Dear God, how did I do that
twice?” and at other moments I wonder why everyone doesn’t have twelve.
For some reason I’m thinking a lot lately about being pregnant, or
rather NOT being pregnant, and how I feel about that, and I’ll tell you
why. (NO, it’s not because I am pregnant, so you can leave that thought
by the side of the road. Seriously. No seriously, knock it off - I am
NOT pregnant again. Fine, whatever. Think what you want.)

Here’s
why. Right now, Jackson is the age that Samantha was when we conceived
him. Just a couple of months before she turned two, we decided it might
be nice to give her a sibling fairly soon. I had always wanted my kids
to be two to three years apart, and I’m not even sure why. Part of me
wanted one child to be at least close to being out of diapers before
the next came along. Part of me wanted one who could at least bring me
a diaper for the other, if not actually change it. For some reason it
all seemed to center around diapers. That’s kind of jacked up, now that
I think about it. Hmm. Surely there must have been other reasons.

Whatever.
Regardless, we wanted them two to three years apart. And by “we” I mean
“me-and-Greg-who-showed-up-when-I-asked-him-to-with-sperm-at-the-ready”.

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Originally published on Krississippi, the Fifty First State of the Union

Another adoptive parent blogger wrote about her son’s adoption not being ’second best’ compared to having a biological child, and it got me thinking about my son’s adoption.

The fact that my FIRST choice in “how to become a parent” was to adopt (totally bypassing the very idea of doing it the ‘natural’ way) is an abstract concept that is often misunderstood…

… but I don’t feel guilty that my son was adopted.

As far as stereotypes go, I’m probably the MOST hated ‘adopter’ (at least in the anti-adoption world) in that I’m simply seen as ‘baby stealer’ - my child came to me as a first choice and I had no intentions in my lifetime (for as far back as I can remember!) to ever have a biological child.

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Originally posted on: Xbox4NappyRash

Dear Spencer,

I know you are only one among millions down there,
but you’re the one I feel I have a connection with, the one I can talk
to. I see you as a leader among men. Well, semen at least.

We’ve been through a lot together, you, your buddies and me. Remember the first time we met? That was an eye opener, certainly was for my stuffed animals anyway.

Over
the next few years we had lot of good times, we met up with each other
at every opportune moment, and quite a few inopportune ones.

In fact, to date, I can only think of one single occasion where we met that wasn’t entirely pleasurable.

But things are changing…I’m not gonna butter you up, I’m gonna tell it to you straight. You need to get your act together down there and get your crew in order.

Lets look at the facts.

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