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2007-07-18 - 9:25 p.m.

I haven’t written much about this round of pregnancy attempting. Of course, it’s partly because we’re not going through a year of trying – always a riveting read – before seeking medical intervention, thus there’s simply less attempting to write about. I’m also writing here less often about anything.

But here’s the thing, it’s also because I’m less preoccupied with it. It seems, well, rather surreal. I’m sure it’s partly because of the lack of year-long build up that preceded the last round of Clomid, but I think it’s also because I’m approaching it from a completely different place this time. I’m already a mom and less than a month ago I was still nursing my baby. At almost 18 months, Grommet may be a toddler now, but she still seems very baby-like to me: she is still in diapers, she still cries whenever she needs to communicate unhappiness or pain since she still lacks the verbal skills to do otherwise (though she can say a whole lot of words now – it’s amazing – they’re mostly names of things rather than abstract concepts like “tired”), her still-fuzzy short hair makes her look younger than she is, etc. Consequently, it’s hard to feel that I’m really lacking a baby in my life.

Add to that the fact that I’ve only recently really gotten my body back to it’s pre-pregnancy shape and weight (though who am I kidding? The boobs? They will never be perky again.), and really feel like I’m over the lingering after effects of the c-section.

So why am I going for baby number two, if I don’t feel that same need I did for the first one? Simply, I know I would always regret not at least trying for more kids. I know I want more, and I don’t need to feel that there’s a gap in my life in order to try for them. Grommet will be enough for me if I simply cannot have more, and it’s even hard to imagine taking attention away from her to give to a younger sibling. But in the long run, I believe that all of our lives – mine, my husband’s, and Grommet’s – would be richer for having another child in the house. I think being a sister, and having a sister or brother, is an experience that would make up for the lack of 100% of our attention.

The fact is, I’m 34. Getting pregnant now will mean having my last child (as I don’t think we’ll be doing this again) at 35 and, for me, that’s about as late as I want to go before finishing with having my kids. There will be over 2 years between them and that too is a gap I don’t wish to lengthen if I have the choice. The time, as they say, is NOW. So, that having been said…

This round of Clomid has been going well, if the ultrasound I had yesterday is to be believed. The ol’ cooter cam (and really it wasn’t that bad and not really like the “driving a stick shift inside of you” feeling I’d been expecting from some of the forums) revealed not one, but TWO follicles, ripe and ready to release eggs.

The surreality that had nicely cushioned me so far disappeared with an almost audible *pop* when the technician pointed at those two circles and said, “Look, you have little two maybe-babies.” Whoa. If my math is sound (and it might not be since I’m not taking into account that they’re independent events) and there’s a 25% chance of conceiving whenever you time intercourse correctly to coincide with ovulation, with two eggs you’d have… mumble, mutter, ticks off fingers… “twenty-five plus twenty-five”… maybe a 50% chance of conceiving? And would that mean that… “great more math… 25% times 25%”… a SIX POINT TWO FIVE percent chance of TWINS?!?!


That’d be exciting and not unwelcome, but the thought is a bit daunting.

So, here’s to two weeks of waiting to find out whether we’re expecting again… and, if we are, a seeming eternity to find out whether we should be thinking of more than one name to fill out on the birth certificates.

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