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Weeks 1 to 2
It's Only Just Begun
I knew, for certain, the morning after. They say this can happen, a woman can tell, instantly, that life is growing inside her. Then again, others say that’s crazy. I’m living proof that it’s not. As the mid-spring night turned hazy and pink, and my husband Jack and 4 1/2-year-old son Henry slept off a fun, busy day, I knew. I was 10 hours pregnant. This moment, yet again, would change everything.
Welcome, I thought, to another round of ambivalence.
We were never 100-percent sure we wanted to have a second child. Life had just begun to feel normal again. We all slept through the night, enjoyed restaurant meals together, and traveled fluently with Henry in tow. More often than not, we achieved the work-life balance so may people strive for. We could afford what we needed and even save a little on the side. It had taken more than four arduous, beautiful years to get to this place, and we had finally arrived.
Doing it all with two kids seemed impossible—financially, logistically, emotionally. We live in New York City, where pre-K carries a $25,000 price tag, and closet space is always in short supply. I would watch in awe as other mothers forged across the street with double strollers, chased two kids riding wildly on bicycles, or fluently juggled a grocery store shopping cart with an infant in the carrier, a diaper bag in hand, and a toddler alongside. And I used to wonder: At the end of their chaotic days, how did their marriages survive? Could they keep their eyes open throughout dinner? Did they really want to go out on date night or was everything after 8 p.m. more trouble than it was worth? Then there was the stamina concern: How did these women do it all day, every day, forever?
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There was also the age issue. I’ll be 39 in October. My husband, Jack, is turning 50 soon after. Was it fair for older parents to raise a family and, most likely, predecease them while they were still so young? On the other hand, we already had a wonderful little boy. Was it cruel to leave him parentless and alone? And furthermore, was it ridiculous for us to be talking about the end of things before they had begun? What about the other point of view? We are healthy, devoted, financially secure adults capable of giving more than one child the best life possible. No reason not to do that other than fear.
We were scared the first time too, but never had a moment of regret. Having Henry had revolutionized our lives, and everything we knew with him was better than our years together before him. I loved that little boy so much, I wasn’t sure there was room in my overflowing heart for more.
So after years of conscientious and dissatisfying condom use (The Pill, it seemed, had eaten my libido so I went off it) and months of intense "should we or shouldn’t we" discussions over too much wine, we had unprotected sex one time on May 27. What, after all, was the likelihood of an almost 39-year-old woman conceiving on the first try? Women my age spend months in pursuit of a first or second pregnancy, to no avail. Friends flock to fertility clinics, waiting on line for hormone injections every morning at dawn, or immerse themselves in the tricky world of adoption, counting the days—traveling thousands of miles—to give their little ones a sibling.
I thought of these anxious, heroic, certain women as I lay awake, knowing that I got pregnant instantly and that this was a gift. I felt a tinge of guilt that conception, for me, was such an effortless task. And I wondered, as I felt a bit of pressure in my abdomen that simply wasn’t a figment of my imagination, who I would meet 40 weeks from now—if I was fortunate enough to make it that far—and how privileged I was to be able to create more family.
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