News Shocker

As many of you know, I've been struggling with viruses being passed back and forth between my husband, kids and me. The last one just refuses to leave, and I have been spending most of my "free" time green and miserable.

I finally broke down and went to the doctor. There were blood and urine tests, then a move to a different exam room with an ultrasound machine. Turns out the "virus" is an eight-week-old fetus, who seemed unconcerned with my shock and discomfort as he wiggled under the ultrasound vibrations, heart beat pulsing light at me as if daring me to deny his existence.

Oh the irony! I was so close to joining the world of foster parenting, so close to adopting a daughter. Instead, I am puking my guts out every night, laying around like an old lady, begging my husband to take the kids downstairs, feed them, bathe them, etc., etc. And considering my history, I doubt I'll feel much better until the baby is out and living in the "real world" with the rest of his brothers. (Yes, I am assuming this is another boy - wouldn't you???)

It's not that I'm not happy. Hey, it's a friggin' miracle - I'm 43 years old and naturally pregnant. My husband is strutting around like a peacock today, chest puffed out, tail wagging behind him. And to his credit, he's treating me like a sacred vessel, taking over the care of the boys, grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, pet care, and everything else for now. He even bought me Peanut Butter Ripple ice cream, without my requesting it. How did he know?

In the hopes of bringing my level of enthusiasm up a notch or two, I am reposting something I wrote a year or two ago and posted to my My Space blog. Seems it's still quite relevant now.

Life as the Mom of 4 Boys....or 5???
Well I won't keep you in suspense: I just received a visit from my "friend." It was a couple of days late, so I was nervous and took not one, but two pregnancy tests. Both negative.

Surprisingly, though, I was not as horrified at its lack of arrival as I thought I would be. In fact, I was a little bit...uh...ok with it??? I know, I know, I should have been jumping up and down hoping to shake the little guy loose, but...I wasn't. And, even more surprisingly, my husband actually kissed my stomach and said, "Well, maybe there's a little girl just like you in there."

Now, I have no such illusions. In fact, I know without a doubt that there will never be anything but a rough-and-tumble boy kicking at my sides, ready to barrel out and wrestle with his brothers. Yes, it's true: I only have eyes for blue and white onsies when I am pregnant, even in the first few weeks, when anything is possible. I even have a boy name or two on reserve, just in case we decide sometime down the road to "go again."

My husband, on the other hand, has been expecting a daughter for the last two rides. He and my mother would spend countless moments whispering to each other, then feigning innocence when I asked what they were talking about. Of course, he had that Homer Simpson "Doh!" look on his face the last two times he heard the proclimation of "boy." (The first thing he did both times was call my mother, his partner in crime, to commiserate with her and to tell her to put away that pink blanket she's been knitting since 1997 for another time.)

So, it is no surprise to me that as our family grows larger, and as I begin to feel less like the cute 20-something he married and more like the Old Woman in the Shoe, he is still gunning for a daughter. He dreams of an angelic baby, a young girl with pigtails and pink outfits. Sometimes I think that he longs to relive the childhood of his oldest daughter, once Daddy's Little Girl, now a sullen teenager more interested in hanging out with her friends than bonding with Daddy.

But then I realize that he wants a daughter with me for the same reasons that I so desperately wanted a son (or four) with him: To have a piece of my husband forever. My love for my husband, a man who somehow manages to be both sensitive and strong at the same time, a man who taught me how to change diapers and insisted that the Family Bed was the best solution for our equally as sensitive firstborn (and all other subsequent babies), is greater than anything I had ever hoped to experience as a young girl looking for love. The birth of each of our sons has been like experiencing that love over and over again, with my heart growing in size just like the Grinch at the end of that beloved children's special "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." My heart is so filled up with my boys that I actually tear up when I watch the five of them wrestle, even as I fear for their safety (I do not own a coffee table or any knick-knacks). I love it when they play baseball and basketball in the backyard and my husband lets the boys win. I love it when the little ones fight over who gets to ride on Daddy's shoulders, and then he winds up carrying all four of them at the same time (muscle-bound man that he is, sans work-outs). I love it when he walks through the door and they all run screaming: "Daddy! Daddy!" And, most of all, I love it when I get to dress all five of my boys alike (husband included), and everyone compliments us on how beautiful our boys are.

For me, boys are a wonderful, real piece of the happy reality that I am blessed to live in. They are living, breathing proof of the love my husband and I share. And so whenever I find out that yet another little boy is growing inside of me, I smile, shake my head, and begin unpacking the almost-new infant outfits that I just couldn't part with after the last baby outgrew them. Then I spend a couple of months agonizing over a name that will fit into our family's mold.

Still, it would be nice if my husband could have his little girl. And if it's meant to be, then we will be thrilled, buy lots of pink and lavender, and spend countless dreamy hours letting girly names roll along our tongues and pass out through our lips. I will let her curls flow free and wild while my husband complains that her hair is a mess, and I will teach her to play the guitar and share all of my girly secrets with her late into the night (OK maybe not that late; I'm a bit of an early bird).

In the meantime, I am secretly happy that we have not had her yet: It allows me to keep growing our wonderful family guilt-free. After all, had she arrived sooner, I would have had to give up my dream for a huge family. But now, I can just keep going until the cows come home. (Or until I go through menopause, which isn't as far away as I'd like to think!)

Yes, I'm tired. Yes, my body just ain't what she used to be. And yes, it's true, I am still trying to lose the rest of the weight I put on when I quit smoking ten years ago (hey, I've been pregnant for the last nine years).

But yes, I would like one more. In a couple of years, when my boys are all in school. This way, I can enjoy that newborn smell, cuddle with my baby, wrap him in a soft blanket, baske in his glow. Sigh - I can't wait! Now if I could just decide on yet another "boy name." Or maybe, just maybe, my husband will get his wish.

Then again, we could always have just one more .....