It took several years and a fair amount of arm-twisting for Mr. Gearhead to sign on to the idea of having a baby. Neither of us has ever had any regrets, though, and soon after she was born, we both felt that we wanted to have one more at some point. We first entertained the idea of spacing them at two years, with the idea that if we had another girl, we would already have all of the clothes, etc. But as the time approached, neither of us felt ready. We were still far too tired, dealing with too many night wakings, and wanting more time to recover. This was a hard decision for me, seeing as I’ve felt this baby calling to me for some time now. But in the end I decided it was best to wait, and we settled on a three year spacing (July ‘08).

But then I got to thinking. How nice would it be to have a baby in the spring, with the whole summer stretching before us, and millions of ready-made activities to entertain M? I could just stick the babe in a sling and go … to the park, the beach, the pool. It seemed that having lots of fun things to do would help ease the transition for M. Plus, my marvelous, endlessly helpful in-laws are here for the summer and gone for the winter … didn’t it make sense to maximize their availability? Mr. GH groused and grumbled, but in the end my case was convincing. It was only the difference of a few months, anyway.

We made our first attempt in July, but I must admit my heart wasn’t fully in it. How strange it is to be in the act of making love, of calling a child to you, and simultaneously thinking do I really want to be doing this? What the hell am I getting myself into? I just couldn’t help it. Frankly, the thought of having two children terrifies me, even though I feel biologically compelled to pursue it.

The next two weeks were spent waiting and wondering. Was I? Wasn’t I? I became inexplicably exhausted. And hungry. Was it just my imagination, or did it hurt more when M nursed? I tried as hard as I could to tap into my intuition. At some level my body knew if it was pregnant or not – my prior pregnancies had always been revealed to me in dreams around the time of implantation – so come on, I thought, dig down and find that knowledge. But I kept vacillating. Sometimes I was sure I was pregnant, other times I was certain I was not. At a ridiculously early date, I started taking home pregnancy tests. Each time swearing I would wait a few days longer before taking the next one, and each morning falling prey to the siren song again. Negative. Negative. Negative.

When my period arrived two days before M’s second birthday, it was undeniable that disappointment was one of the many emotions that washed over me. I think those two weeks of waiting, of constantly thinking maybe, maybe … it helped me come to terms with some of my fears. I realized that yes, I did want to do this. Yes, I did want this baby.

About 10 days later I went for a Maya Abdominal Massage. I had recently read a birth story where the mother swore up and down that receiving this massage during her third pregnancy dramatically altered her birth – making it shorter and less painful. Well, if you know anything about my birth with M, then you know I’m all about shorter and less painful. According to the website, MAM is a panacea that cures all ailments. Well, not really, but close. It’s supposed to address infertility, endometriosis, painful menstruation, prostate problems in men, pregnancy and birth, digestion, general health, and so on. But I figured it certainly couldn’t hurt, and if it was good during pregnancy, then it was probably even better to get started beforehand. It’s not supposed to be practiced during the first trimester, so I carefully studied my dates, and booked an appointment a few days before I expected to ovulate.

The appointment went fine until the end, when the therapist informed me that they suggest waiting one to three cycles before trying to conceive, so the body and uterus have a chance to detox and cleanse. I stared at her, my mouth agape, recalling the lengthy negotiations we had endured, trying to fit me in before ovulation exactly because I was trying to conceive. I squelched my irritation, wondering why on earth this woman failed to mention this important detail beforehand, paid the fee and left.

Although I initially took her suggestion to heart, after further thought I realized that I have been detoxing and cleansing my body, mind and spirit for well over a year, and … well … fuck that waiting shit. I didn’t want to have a baby at the end of the summer. I wanted a spring baby. So when my body showed signs of ovulation a few days later, I decided we would give it a try. Just once. If it was meant to be, it was meant to be.

I stood next to the bed and said, I’m ready for you to impregnate me. We both got a good giggle at this, but I really think it was something I needed to say … to feel. When we finished, I had the same small, involuntary smile as when we conceived M. The knowing but still not letting yourself know. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a baby joining us at that moment. It seemed as if there was golden energy, summoned from the source, sluicing between my molecules and spiraling down, down, down into my womb. Compressing into a tiny spark and embedding into two cells at the moment they joined … creating life where moments before there had been nothing but hopes and dreams. What secrets would it hold?

This time I handled the two week wait with grace. I refused to have pregnancy tests in the house. If I was pregnant, I was pregnant. If I wasn’t, I wasn’t. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. A part of me longed for my intuition to reveal an answer (and felt like a failure for being unable to summon it at will), but mostly I was content. I had one dream that could have been interpreted as a sign, but it was not nearly as obvious as previous times. I will tell it here because it’s quite amusing … in the dream, Mr. GH was commenting that I must be pregnant, because I had an increased sex drive (which I surely didn’t, by the way). How unromantic is that? With M I dreamt that my stomach was growing because it contained rising bread. When I awoke from that dream, I laughed at the knock-you-over-the-head aspect of the symbolism; but even then I was afraid to let myself believe.

I often have signs of ovulation off and on for four to six days, and am still not really certain what my body is up to, so I wasn’t exactly sure when I had ovulated. We had made our attempt at the beginning of that pattern, and 17 days later I was certain my period was starting. I had cramps and bloating, and made several emergency trips to public restrooms while I was out and about, certain that I would find blood. I had even brought my Diva with me, although I kept resisting the idea of inserting it. But … nothing. That night, I finally sent Mr. GH to the store for a test. Just one test, I instructed, it’s all I’ll need. It was an errand that was performed rather begrudgingly, I must note, although in all fairness, it probably had a lot to do with the fact that his truck was up on stands in the driveway with the front wheels removed, awaiting the installation of new brakes.

He deposited the test on the kitchen counter, and went back out into the darkness to work on his truck. I immediately retired to our bathroom, and tried to calm my nerves. I read the directions thoroughly, even though I had used several of the same type just weeks before. I found the whole “pee on the stick for exactly 5 seconds” to be a little silly and unrealistic … do they honestly think women are able to hunch on a toilet, hold the stick in their urine stream, and simultaneously watch a second hand sweep on a watch? Regardless, I did my best to follow the instructions. I capped the stick and placed it gingerly on the floor, still sitting on the toilet as I leaned over to watch. My urine surged across the first window, lighting up the horizontal line. I held my breath as it approached the vertical line – the one that would transform a negative into a positive. It reached it, passed it, and … nothing. I let out a small sigh. Disappointed, but also content in the knowledge that this baby would come to me when the time was right. Then I glanced down again. And looked closer. Grabbed the stick and held it in front of my eyes. Was it? Could it? The line was turning blue! I held my breath and thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but there it was, getting darker and darker by the second. My negative had become positive. There was a baby in my belly. My spirit baby.

I stood up and did a little dance. Giddy with disbelief and joy, and also fearful because I had crossed the point of no return. Fantasy had become reality, with all of the attendant, well, real things that come with it. Like, morning sickness. Or as it should really be known: all-day-sickness. And insomnia. And holy shit, I’m going to have a newborn again. In addition to the kid I ALREADY HAVE!

I picked up the phone to call a friend, and then stopped myself. No one else should know before my husband, but he was working on his truck. I looked at the clock, and decided it couldn’t wait. I went outside, and held the pregnancy test in the beam of the flashlight. “What does that mean?” (Men! I mean, sometimes they’re so dense!) “It’s a plus sign honey, it means the test was positive.” “Oh.” Pause. “Are you sure?” “Yes I’m sure. There is no such thing as a false positive.” He grunts. “That was easy.” And turned back to his truck.

Now let me stop and say that while my husband may sound like a complete asshole, he really isn’t. He’s just one of those people who finds it exceedingly difficult to share his internal emotional state with others. But that doesn’t always get him off the hook. I swung my leg back and kicked him in the ass as hard as I could, exclaiming, “That’s the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” He sighed and mumbled that he needed to wipe his hands off. He stood and gave me a hug and a kiss, and with a devilish glint in his eye said, “Let’s celebrate. Go get me a beer.” (He had been (mostly) abstaining from alcohol while we tried to conceive, so I’m still not sure if the “celebration” he spoke of was the celebration of my pregnancy or the end of his prohibition.) During a rare calm moment the next day, he looked at me and quietly said, “I think this one is going to be a boy.” I knew then that he was with me.

And so here we are. We have almost completed the perilous first twelve weeks, although I always felt in my heart that we would do fine. If you consider being brought to your knees by the torture that is early pregnancy “fine”. I am not a puker thankfully, but the visceral misery of the first trimester has left me reeling. I had hoped to navigate this phase with a little more grace (and a little less ice cream) this time around, but such has not been the case. Things were only made worse by the fact that M started dropping her naps immediately after I found out I was pregnant. As in, the very next day. The inability to get that extra rest and sleep was agonizing, and I will be eternally indebted to my mother-in-law, who has spent almost every day of the last 5 weeks at my house caring for my daughter while I retreated to my bed to ride out my own personal hell.

I have felt slow – excruciatingly slow – but steady improvement over the last week, and finally felt able to put words to the page today … an exercise that seemed beyond my abilities until now, even though I have so many things to write about. This pregnancy and birth is going to be an awesome journey for me. There is much healing and processing to do, but I’m up to the task. The work has already begun, in fact. We will homebirth this time, and have already chosen an amazing, gentle, talented, wonderful midwife to be with us. I am excited, I am terrified, I am sick, I am ripe with life, I am yin, I am yang. I am woman, mother, giver of life … goddess.