The Last One?

I’m not sure there’s anyone still reading this, but I’ve used this blog to document our family-building journey — all the heartache, all the joy — and so I won’t stop updating until my story is complete. For those who stumble upon it, I want to give hope that, even with significant fertility issues, there is the possibility of having a family. A big family even. I also want to acknowledge that it does not always work out that way for so many other women/couples and I have not forgotten where I come from.

All of that to say…

One week ago, we welcomed our newest family member. He’s our second boy, our fifth child, our first summer baby, and he gave us the surprise of our life when he arrived in an unassisted homebirth. (The homebirth was planned. The unassisted part not so much.) We can call him Sunny on this blog.

If you’re still here, thank you. If you find this blog sometime in the future, know there’s hope.

Hope dies last.

So long, friends.

xoxo

Popping In Once More

Hi, friends. Is there anyone still reading this blog, which now lives in a very quiet corner of the internet?

Well, if there is, here’s a quick update:

• The baby I once coined Twinkle, our fourth child, is now nearly fifteen months old. She still doesn’t have much hair, just got her tenth tooth, isn’t walking yet, babbles all the time but doesn’t say many “real words” (trying not to worry), and she gets into ev.ery.thing. She is also one of the happiest babies I’ve ever known and I wish she could stay little a while longer.
• We’re kinda-sorta trying to have another baby. I want one desperately. Just one more. My husband doesn’t and won’t agree to using Clomid, but has agreed to trying without. The likelihood of it happening without Clomid is slim, so I’m still hoping he’ll change his mind, but either way, we’re back on this road again and I have so many feelings about it. I know it sounds like an embarrassment of riches to be asking for a 5th child. I also know I’m probably just begging for more heartache and disappointment. I wish so many things could be different, but they’re not, and so this is what it is. We’ll see what the future holds, I guess.
• I recently had my first piece published at Her View From Home: “You’re a Once in a Lifetime Friend.” If you’re interested, please read and/or share. I’d love your support!
• I have started blogging as my real self on a new blog: Living on Coffee & Prayer. I’m not sure how often I’ll be writing, but you’ll find personal essays and poetry there when the mood strikes. Because Waiting to Expand is anonymous, any mention of it on the new blog will be politely deleted, but I would love for you to come over and say hello and follow along if you’d like!

If you’re still here, thank you. I miss my old blogging friends and send love to you all!

She’s Here

Our fourth child, our third daughter, arrived eleven days ago.

Isabel*Joycie*Grayce was born on June 1st at 4:53 a.m. in a natural hospital birth. She weighed 8lbs 6oz and measured 20.5 inches long. She was six days overdue, covered in vernix, had almost a completely bald little head, and her eyes were bright and alert. Her sweetness was apparent instantly. In every way, she is perfect.

It’s hard to accept that she is our last child. I’m still not sure she is, though my husband adamantly disagrees. But that’s another story for another day.

Today, I am savoring every moment. The snuggles. The sleepy sighs. The dreamy smiles. Her tiny, precious weight against my chest.

These are the best days of my life and I am treasuring every one of them.

The Power of Love

It’s 4:30am here on the west coast and I am awake, watching the royal wedding with the rest of the world. The bishop just finished his sermon on the power of love and now “Stand by Me” is being sung by the choir and I just want to cry all the tears.

Weddings make me cry. Young love and new beginnings make me cry. My enduring fascination and love for the royal family makes me cry. And pregnancy hormones make me cry.

I’m a mess.

A mess mostly because I’m just so thankful that I, too, get to know the power of love. All good things in my life began with falling in love with my husband and, now, we have three children whom give us more joy and love than we ever could have imagined. It’s a whole new level of love.

A love that will be taken a step further even as we prepare to welcome Baby #4 very soon. I’m exactly a week away from my due date and, given our journey and my lifelong dream of having a large family, it is incredible, and surreal, and magical, and bittersweet, and everything in between.

And though, as ever, I worry that something will happen between now and this baby’s lively entrance into the world, I am trusting it will all work out. And I am so excited to meet this child. Though closing this chapter of our lives is a mixed bag of emotions, this baby is the missing puzzle piece we’ve been waiting for all along. This baby will complete our family and, in this moment, I can hardly even believe this is real life. It seems that, no so long ago, I wondered if I would ever have one, or two, children. And now we are about to welcome our fourth. A dream come true. My own little fairytale. I will pop in once more after the birth to give the baby stats.

Oh, and one more thing…

It’s a girl!!!

And so it begins (again)…

It’s been a while since I showed my face here (so to speak), I know. I’m just not sure this is the right place for me anymore. Most of my blogging buddies of 2012-13 have moved on, thankfully every last one of them with a baby in their arms (I think). I miss them, but am over-the-moon that they are not stuck in this space of infertility and loss and grief and desperation forever. That’s not to say everyone makes it out of this space, of course. But I’m thankful most do, however hard the journey may be.

All of that to say, my corner of the online world is not the same without them, and not the same now that I have a handful of kids instead of just one. It’s weird to be an infertile blogger and trying to have a baby, all the while there are three children screaming “Mom! Mom! Mom!” from the next room as I write. I recently searched for blogs with a writer who was in a similar situation — trying to have a third or fourth or fifth baby. Do you know how many I found? NONE. Not a single one. And maybe I didn’t look hard enough, but clearly they are few and far between.

And so I don’t know if I’ll continue coming here. Maybe I will, as a journal, meant for me and no one else. Maybe I’ll pop in for an update once in a purple moon. But I imagine there will be a lot of silence from here on out.

And yet, there are a few of you out there, some frequent commenters and other shadow-lurkers, who have read and followed this blog faithfully. First, I say thank you. And as a sign of my gratitude and devotion, I’ll leave you with this:

Let me just say that it’s still early. I’m not yet 5 weeks. And I’m scared. But just as a blogging friend-turned-in-real-life-friend warned me against earlier this week, I’m trying very, very hard not to let my fear steal my joy away. Today, I’m pregnant. And today, I’m utterly thankful, so happy, and hoping with all I’ve got that, in 8-9 months, there will be a healthy baby in my arms and, finally, our family will be complete.

What a day that will be.

I Was Wrong

Here is what I know now:

I thought I had my body figured out, sort of.

I thought that I knew what to expect, sort of.

I believed that because lightning struck once, it just might strike again.

I was arrogant; I was cocky.

I really did think that baby #4 was a given.

And I thought that, even if I didn’t get pregnant with my one lucky post-weaning ovulation, I was at peace with taking Clomid again. No big deal.

But now, as I stand here on the eve of swallowing my first Clomid pill in many years, I know just how wrong I was about it all.

Déjà vu

It’s déjà vu, these blank ovulation tests, the waiting and the impatience, the cycle of hope and disappointment.

Heart pounding when I take my temperature in the morning, anticipating that maybe this morning it will rise, fearing that this morning it will drop.

Obsessing over fertility charts past and present, searching for a reason to have hope, right here, right now.

Analyzing my cervical mucous every evening.

Having sex all.the.time.

Spinning my wheels and getting nowhere.

Déjà vu.

I’m still waiting for my one lucky post-weaning ovulation. That’s new. I’ve always ovulated, on my own, about three weeks after fully weaning my baby. It’s been almost six weeks now.

I had a reason to hope last week. Cervix was high and very soft. Tons of EWCM. OPK’s were getting darker (never positive). And then — nothing. All signs disappeared. A false start.

Déjà vu.

Anger at my body for failing me. Sadness that my body is so broken.

Sadness that my one chance to do this naturally is slipping away.

Sadness that this can’t be easier, that I can’t be like “everyone else.”

Sadness that there may be many more months ahead filled with sadness.

Sadness that the sadness has filled me already.

So, so much sadness.

Déjà vu.

Dropping to my knees in quiet prayer.

Fighting against what almost seems inevitable now — endless cycles of progesterone and Clomid.

Bracing myself for the pain, for the disappointment, for the frustration, for much more sadness.

Déjà vu.

Knowing, with great conviction now, that I want this baby I am waiting for. It’s déjà vu. Nothing like feeling like something may be out of your reach to make you realize how desperately you want it, eh? Déjà vu.

And to make you realize that, if you ever get it, it will be the last time. Definitively. Because you — because I — can’t do this anymore. I’m ready to be done. That’s new, too.

But most of it?

An ongoing, itchy, painful déjà vu.

And yet, the hope for another kind of déjà vu — one filled with positive pregnancy tests and skin stretched across a growing belly — persists.

I will do this over and over if I have to. I will live this déjà vu.

Renewed determination. Hope that won’t die. Letting go and having faith.

The most beautiful part of my déjà vu.

 

The Sacrificial Lamb

He loves to nurse.

I mean, what sweet, plush, toddling being doesn’t love to snuggle up to Mama and be nourished while he tugs her hair and rests his head against her warm chest?

But this kid — my kid — loves to nurse. When he sees me walking towards his bedroom, where we do all of our breastfeeding these days, he starts laughing and nearly skipping as he leads the way. He then enthusiastically pats the chair I always sit in and hands me the Boppy pillow. And when he latches on, his eyes roll into the back of his strawberry blond-haired head and he releases the softest sigh. Sometimes he falls asleep. Sometimes he signs “milk” to me over and over. Sometimes he tugs on my hair or tries to put his finger in my ear/mouth/nose/eye/all of the above.

Often, we play a game while he drinks. I ask him question after question — Are you happy? Are you funny? Are you special? Do you love me? Do I love you? — and he nods his head to each one. He has started nodding before I even ask him anything. And sometimes he smiles or laugh. Sometimes he mumbles something. But he never lets go of my nipple.

He loves to nurse.

For a while, I was in turmoil over the decision to wean him. I didn’t want to. It was physically uncomfortable at best, leaving me breathless, and deeply painful at worst, sending spasms throughout my body whenever I even thought about it. I wasn’t ready and he was showing no signs that he was either. But you know me — I’ve always wanted at least one more kid and my desire to move forward with that somehow, though just barely, won the battle with my desire to keep nursing. And so every five days, I cut out another nursing or pumping session. And every five days, my breasts and my heart ache once again.

In some ways, it feels like I am choosing one child over another. Choosing a child whose face I have never seen, whose weight I have never felt against my chest. Choosing a child with no name, a child who hasn’t been born, a child who hasn’t even been conceived. I am choosing the idea of this child, this fantasy, over my sweet, living, breathing son who gently lays his head upon our dog and laughs at everything I do. My poor baby. My sweet sacrificial lamb.

But that could just be a mix of my anxiety and my hormones talking. I have been known to be a little melodramatic when those two come together.

Either way, it’s times like these when I wish so hard that my body worked differently, worked better, and that some way, I could magically fall pregnant with those elusive unicorn babies I’ve read about in the dreamiest fairy tales, without having to sacrifice anything at all.

Wouldn’t that be something?

One Small Step

A week ago, I stepped into my OB/GYN’s office for the first time in over a year. A half hour later, I left with a new prescription for Clomid, Provera, and Metformin. It all felt so familiar, it was as though I was living my life of two, or five, years ago.

Except I came home to a house full of children, screaming and fighting, and a floor that was unseeable because of the massive field mine of toys that stretched from the front door to every corner of every bedroom, and I had to ask myself, can I even handle another child? Can I handle the constant stress and mess and lack of rest? Because some days it feels as though I am seriously failing. Some days, it feels as though my head might explode if one more child whines about what is on her dinner plate or about how itchy her shirt is or about having to pick up her toys before bedtime. There are days when the monotony of parenthood — the barage of reminders I have to give Cupcake in the morning so that she will be ready for school on time, the taking of Skittle’s hand numerous times a day to lead her to the potty, the gentle (but infinite) guidance I have to give Poppy to keep him from unplugging every lamp in the house, the meal planning, the drawn-out bedtime routines, the toy pick-up over and over and over — seems overwhelming and exhausting. And so often, the worry that ebbs and flows over my children’s health — worry about everything from allergies (yes, lots of them) to asthma (probably not) to mysterious fevers, strep, UTIs, and yeast infections (the last four of which have all made an appearance at our house within the last three months) — just feels like so. damn. much. TOO much for one person, or for at least this one person, to handle with any sort of grace or dignity. And to think of doing it for one second longer than I have to seems foolish.

And then there are the other days. Days like yesterday, when I take just Cupcake out for hot cocoa and we talk about wonderful things while we sip from our cup and she is a delight to be around and declares it “the best day ever.” Days when Poppy takes a few steps on his own and then collapses onto the ground in a fit of belly laughs because he is so proud of himself, or  when wide-eyed Skittle crawls into my bed and whispers into the darkness of the room, “I love you, Mommy.” There are days when the kids are happy and loving from sunrise to sunset, and thank me sweetly for the cookie on their plate at lunchtime, and play nicely together all day long. Or maybe they don’t — maybe they fight or argue about who-knows-what and yell and snatch toys away, but then they say “sorry” unprompted and give each other an affectionate, genuine hug and all is well again. And there are days when we go on adventures as a family, near or far, and nothing on our list of daily tasks to do weighs on us. And there are days when we spend a relaxing morning at home, us adults sipping coffee with our littles snuggled next to us on the couch while we watch home movies, and I am suddenly reminded how quickly the years go by and that they will be all grown up in a flash. Those are the days when my heart explodes and I wish I could do this a million times more.

Though we are not taking any preventative measures — and haven’t in nearly eight years — we are not yet officially “trying” for our fourth take-home baby. But we are putting a plan in place. I have significantly cut back on sugar and caffeine. I will wean Poppy over the course of five weeks starting in April. I will order my regime of vitamins at some point in the future if necessary. And now I have my prescriptions, for better or worse. And perhaps I won’t even need them. Perhaps lightning will strike twice and I will fall pregnant with my one lucky, post-weaning ovulation as I did with Poppy. But that seems like a little too much to hope for and so I am preparing for a harder journey.

I don’t know what will happen in the months to come. I am hopeful and excited. I am apprehensive, scared, and even a little sad. This very well may be our last baby. It’s a relief to be at this point, but it’s bittersweet as well. It hurts to think that this could be the very last time I do any of this. Even more, it hurts to think that I may not get to do it at all. I mean, let’s get real, you guys. My ovaries don’t work as they should. None of this is a given. And so I’m fearful of what is to come. What I will have to endure. What I will put my family through in doing it.

It’s a difficult thing to go forward, knowing that the path ahead could be nothing but a journey towards failure, disappointment, heartache, and loss while also knowing that it’s probably possible to be perfectly happy with what I have right this minute. My children are incredible. My life feels full. It’s hard to imagine being much happier than this. And yet, without this fourth baby, I know that it will forever feel as if someone is missing around here. Our family is not complete and missing someone who could have been here, if only I had tried, is not really the way I want to live the rest of my life. I have never let fear or doubt stop me when it comes to going after something I really want. And this — this big family — is something that I want so much. I have longed for it since childhood, long before I met my husband or ever heard the term “infertile.” Even when we were celebrating just having one, so grateful for the opportunity to be parents at all, my heart always yearned for more. And it feels so, so close.

So we will try. Come what may, we will try to achieve what always feels impossible. A miracle.

This Boy

My sweetheart of a boy, this one pictured here, turned ONE early in the month.

He loves exploring new places, stroller rides, taking his socks off, chewing on everything, a green toy flute and his plastic dinosaurs, our dog, playing with everything that he’s not supposed to (like the TV remote and my phone), every single person he meets, and eating all finger foods that we give him. He also really, really loves his mama. He follows me from room to room like a puppy and clings to me when I stop walking.

He does not love teething, being alone, or long car rides.

This boy is the smallest of my babies, weighing less now than he did at nine months and a good pound less than either of his sisters did at this age. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he’s just in the 40th percentile for his weight (and even less for his height). But don’t worry…he’s healthy, he’s growing, and his doctor is not at all concerned. He’s just a boy on the move these days!

And oh, how he is always on the move! He’s not walking yet, but he knows how to speed-crawl alongside the best of them. Getting him to sit still for a photograph is nearly impossible anymore:

He celebrated his first birthday with ZERO teeth. But the first one popped has now popped through, about a week ago, and I can see maybe five more that are close to the surface. It’s going to be a fun few months around here.

Poppy is also still the smiliest, giggliest baby that I know. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not always happy…but he’s wildly ticklish and always seeking to make a connection with those around him. He’s quick to smile and thinks everything we do is funny. So he pretty much smiles and laughs all the time. On the drive to pick up Cupcake from school the other day, he laughed his head off the whole way. Deep belly laughs that came from within his soul. It was just about the best sound ever.

This boy? The one with the bright, sparkling eyes? The one with the curious smile? The one with that little tongue always sticking out in the sweetest way?

This boy has stolen my heart. For all the ways and days I spent worrying before his birth that I would not know how to love him, let me assure you that I do. I loved him fiercely the moment he was born and I love him even more with each passing day.

I’m so glad this boy is mine.