Sun cried in the middle of the night. We called her to our bed and all three of us went back to sleep. A few hours later, I awoke with Sun in my arms. There was peace. And I thought, “what was that bothering me yesterday?” Then I remembered. And the obligation of guilt kicked in.

Morning rolled in, we all rose a bit later than usual. I returned to the hospital to have more blood drawn then drove in to work for the first time since. I knew I had to get two sets of documents drafted and have lunch with a peer that I’d postponed on Tuesday. I couldn’t face the challenges of the day. Or so I thought. I finagled in my mind how to get things done in the office without my presence. The first step was postponing lunch. Again.

I turned on my computer and the email was already in my in-box: “I’m still on for lunch. Are you?” And I couldn’t bring myself to be weak and say no. Again. So I said yes. And then I got busy drafting my documents.

And work was my saving grace. The time zipped along. It was lunch time already. I met my new friend. We exchanged the married with kids info. He asked, “Just one? Are you going to have another?” And the pang to be honest beat in my chest — tell this stranger about your week, thought I. “Nope, just the one is enough for us,” I answered, not revealing too much to this unsuspecting stranger. “I think that’s great. My mother was an only child. And all the only children I knew did quite well. I am not sure why folks make such a big deal about only children.”

And just like that. My train was put back on its tracks. I felt normal. I wasn’t thinking about what had happened. I was sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the talk of family, law, nice weather in NOLA.

This “it” affected me, is affecting me, in ways I never could have imagined it would. But time is doing its job. And my train is on the track again, chugging along, even if slowly.

Things DO work out. Heh. What a wild ride this week has been.

Disappointment comes in many shades of gray.  Yesterday’s disappointments were simple: black.

It began to sink in that although my body DID allow me to get pregnant, it still failed in some way in not maintaining the pregnancy.  That choice I felt so strongly about the night before was gone again.  I have no choice.  This body is broken.  Even if it’s broken in a way that coincides with what my choice would be.  See how I can turn something positive into something wrong with me?

We didn’t know I was pregnant until I had already lost it.  So to me this was just a medical issue.  Not a miscarriage.  I struggle to apply that word to what’s happened.

My mother-in-law came with me to the doctor.  She was there when the forceps were requested.  When tissue was removed.  When yet another vaginal ultrasound was taken. When I was told I may in fact not have lost the pregnancy yet.  Then when I was told that in fact I had.  When I was told it wasn’t a tubal pregnancy or one that would require a D & C.  And when they took blood to compare to blood they will take tomorrow.

She loaned me her strength.  Her courage.

On the drive home, she got a call from her job informing her that she’d not have to work next week.  She jokingly told her employer, “You mean I can stay an extra week in New Orleans?”  And when she hung up, I was hungry for her to tell me that that’s what she’d do.

I asked her to stay.  Maybe even implored a little.  Then I got CS to ask, thinking it’d mean more if HE told her how much I needed her, she’d stay.  “No,” she repeated, “I’ve gotta get home.”

Then today I overheard her asking her husband if HE wanted her to stay an extra week.  In other words, if he wants her home, home she’ll go.  He said stay.  And she is upset because she now thinks he doesn’t miss her.  And now she may stay.

And now I just don’t give a shit either way.  And somewhere in here, when I explained to my husband that I’d call a friend to watch Sun today and he responded, “Why?” I got pissed at him too.

So much for being on top of things emotionally, eh?

Looking back, the signs were there.  But when you aren’t looking, how can you see them?

So today when my period turned angry and stopped me in my tracks, I assumed it was what I’m told about ALL my new ailments: It’s yet another sign of aging.

Then the flow got really heavy.  No worries, just a desire for good meds.  Then clots appeared.  Doubt crept in. Could I have been…?  Am I now…?

My mother-in-law is staying with us, and we canceled our afternoon plans so I could wear sweat pants and suffer at home.  She also got me to call my doctor.  He asked if I was sure I wasn’t pregnant.  And then the math hit me.  I mean, it was possible, albeit improbable.  So he asked that I take a pregnancy test and if positive go to his office tomorrow to be sure “nothing’s left behind.”

I called CS at work and explained things and asked him to bring me home a pregnancy test.  And that damn thing showed “Pregnant” faster than I had time to even come close to bracing for such a result.  Stunned, I walked out of the bathroom.  My mother-in-law was walking past the door.  I tossed the stick to her.  She read it and said, “NO WAY.”  Then she brought it to CS, who was running Sun’s bath.

I then went into the bathroom where CS was (and Sun wasn’t yet).  We stared at each other.  Stunned.  Then we talked a bit.  And I realized that CS was under the mistaken impression that I was carrying a viable pregnancy.  I clarified there was NO WAY I wasn’t losing it — hadn’t already lost it.

Then I went to the den and sat down.

Stunned.

Dazed.

Relieved.

I know I’ve posted about our decision to have no more children.  To do no more fertility treatment.  We were coasting along on a “if it happens” mentality.  But when you KNOW it won’t, can’t, happen, you accept it.  And although we felt that we DID have the ability to have another child, and it WAS our decision not to, there was a nagging hint of doubt.  What if we could easily get pregnant?   Have we just decided we don’t want another because of the stress/cost/etc. of fertility treatment?  Were we just “deciding” what was already a foregone conclusion without intervention?

And before I took that pregnancy test I thought, it doesn’t matter what it reads.  Either way, I am NOT having a baby now.  It won’t MEAN anything.  We have no attachment, no expectation.

And then I saw the one word. “Pregnant.”  And my hand shook a bit.  And my nerves shook a lot.

And I sat on the sofa.  Marveling at my own girly parts.  Our fertility doctor had said that if we’d wanted another baby, we’d maybe not even have to do fertility again because my hormonal dysfunction could sort of “re-set” itself after a healthy pregnancy and delivery.

And then I realized that for the past 3 or so years that I thought, no matter what that fertility doctor may have said to me, that I’ve ALWAYS been infertile and could NOT have another child without intervention, that I’d been wrong.  That yet again I’d underestimated myself, my body, and assumed the worst.  That I was just temporarily infertile!  That we really DO have a choice to have another child.  That our decision NOT to have another child is real.  And that decision is mutual.  And right for us.  So instead of tears, there was a small smile.

Tonight, I was liberated.

I CAN, DID, get pregnant without a doctor in the room!  And we really, truly, choose for me not to get pregnant, for us not to have a baby, again.  That nagging doubt?  It too flowed out of me today.  Once and for all.

I am a “tight” knitter: my stitches are tight.  I have to remind myself to ease up on the tension of the yarn; relax my fingers and my mind.  I knit a cap for CS years ago, and it was a big hit.  It was a straight knit 4, purl 4 pattern, your typical skull cap.  Several friends wanted me to knit one for them.  I was happy to oblige.

The day I was given the (erroneous) news that I had a severe infertility problem, I boarded a plane for a weekend in New York.  That flight was delayed and we sat on the tarmac for what seemed like hours.  I was working on one of those skull caps for a friend.  My gauge was off.  Way off.  I knit several inches worth then ripped back to nothing at least four times sitting on that miserable tarmac.  All the while, my ears were plugged into my iPod listening to Bob Dylan.  And tears ran down my cheeks.  I couldn’t bother with what the 50-something business man thought sitting next to me of the mess I was.  What could I say to him to excuse my bizarre behavior?  No eye contact was the best bet.

After a few days, months, I would try that cap again and again.  My gauge was never right.  I’d check my gauge before starting, a task I loathe, and still seemed off.  I ripped out this cap another four or so times.

The yarn I had selected for my friend began to show signs of my struggle.  It was fraying, cracking, and in time, breaking.  After a year, I threw the yarn away and decided CS could knit the cap for our friend.  (He’d learned to knit Sun a blanket).

More years have passed and CS still has not knit that cap.  I am now picking that project up again.  I have a new ball of yarn.  Different colors even.

And yet.

My gauge is off again.  The size 8 needles I used so easily the first time are way too big.  Even 7s won’t do the trick.  I will be testing 6s this evening.  And as I knit 4, purl 4, I am reminded of that damn day in the plane.  And the sting of disappointment I’ve endured with this cap.

I am realizing I should have knit this cap years ago.  So now I am determined.  I will knit this cap.  I will exorcise this demon.  I will release that tension.  Once and for all.

This post is dedicated to XBoxForNappyRash, who is currently going through the ordeal that is Fertility Treatment.

About a month ago, I got a call from a friend telling me she was pregnant.  I went into automatic mode and said all the right things.  But just beneath the surface, I was jealous.  Not jealous that my friends were going to have a baby and we weren’t (a painful jealousy I have also experienced).  No, this time I was jealous over the pregnancy itself.  This couple decided they wanted a baby.  The woman got off the pill and voilà.  Pregnant in no time.

Today, another friend told me she is pregnant.  She tells me she’s lukewarm about it.  I know that’s a lie, that deep down she really wants this baby and she’s just got the jitters.  But here’s that green-headed monster in my heart again lurching:  Jealousy.  This couple decided that “if it happened, it happened, if not, two kids are fine.”  And of course it happened.  What would stop it?  That’s what happens when you are fertile.  Mr. Sperm (aka Spencer) meet Ms. Egg (aka Ellie).  Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

Fertile people will NEVER know what it feels like to want a baby so badly and have nature tell you no.  And once-infertile people will never NOT know what that feels like; we are part of a club of which we wish not to be a member.

If CS and I decide tonight that we want another baby, there is no,”if it happens, it happens, if not, Sun in enough.”  I know this because that’s what we are doing now–nothing.  Nothing is stopping me from getting pregnant other than my own chemical makeup.  If we decide positively we want another baby, I KNOW my body will not give me one without intervention.  And maybe even then I won’t get pregnant.

I hate to still feel shitty every time a friend tells me they are pregnant.  It was bad enough when I was dealing with the pills and needles and negative pregnancy tests.  But I thought once I had Sun and felt whole again that that hole in my heart would heal and close.  But I am learning that it may never close.  I may always feel a pang of angst at others’ happy news.

I always come around and am truly happy for my friends.  I just hate that I have this sorrow that is now, apparently, a permanent fixture in my heart.  CS feels none of these negative feelings about our friends getting pregnant so easily.  Maybe because the fertility problem was mine.  Maybe because he’s a male and hardwired differently than me.  Or maybe the sorrow never ran as deep for him as for me.

Regardless, I spent the better part of today feeling good and sorry for myself.  Poor little Nola can’t get pregnant like a “normal” woman.  Poor little Nola will only have one child unless she spends thousands of dollars and endures a battery of emotional and physical treatments.  Poor little Nola won’t have a daughter who will have a sibling.  Poor little Nola has put all her eggs (no pun intended) in one basket and oh what pressure that will be on Sun.

But I am done with the pity party.  I will NOT make my friend’s pregnancy about my infertility; I will NOT allow myself not to appreciate the gifts my life has.  I will NOT allow any hole in my heart to short-change me on sharing joyous news with friends.

I realize I may always have sorrow over the infertility path I walked down.  But in the end, we all have our own crosses to bear.  And I will not let my cross overshadow the many lights in my life.

I had made arrangements to go with Wendy to the knitting store to pick yarn for me to knit her daughter a scarf for Christmas. I had just finished knitting the behemoth blanket. I was very excited to return to my favorite local yarn shop for the first time since having had Sun.

We stepped into the shop, me lugging a sleeping 4-month old Sun in her carrier and Wendy holding Sam’s small hand. As usual, I heard, “Noooola!” The clerk recognizing me said, “Ooooh, you had the baby! Did Dr. Socks deliver her?” and with that she turned her head and pointed. To Dr. Socks. Who was standing in the very spot where I’d met him. Talking to a clerk about needlepoint threads.

Deep inside, I screamed. On the outside, I answered the clerk with an icy, loud, firm, “No.” I then turned to Wendy and said under my breath, “That’s him. That’s HIM. THAT’S HIM.” The blood was beating so loudly in my ears I couldn’t hear anything or concentrate on anything. Except him. I couldn’t stop looking at him. Waiting. Waiting for the right words to come to me. Waiting for him to see me. Waiting for him to see Sun. Waiting for him to realize he had been wrong. Waiting for him to speak to me.  Waiting for him to apologize.

He gave me the quickest of glances and returned to his work. Looking back, he focused an awful lot of attention on his work. He did see me, although I couldn’t tell if he’d recognized me. But then I thought, of course he recognized me! He recognized me in his office after one short meeting of him in this very shop. I’d seen him in his office no less than ten times as his patient. Was he… could he be… surely he wasn’t… IGNORING ME!?!

My mind raced. Do I SAY something? Do I NOT say something? Do I make a scene? Do I embarrass him? Will I embarrass myself? WHAT SHOULD I DO, DAMMIT! What would you have done?

What did I do? With shaky hands, I picked up Sun in her carrier and walked over to the table Socks was working over. I tapped into all the courage I could muster and called to him in a sing-song voice, “Ohh, Dooooctor Soooocks, looky what I have!!” And I rocked the carrier back and forth with a large knowing smile on my face.

He looked up, looking decidedly caught, and meekly said, “Congratulations.” Then he turned his head back down to his work.

That was it.

I didn’t know what more to do. He couldn’t think Sun was adopted; he had to have heard the conversation I had with the clerk (it’s a tiny shop). He had to know, in that moment, that my decision (against his advice) to go to a local fertility specialist had been the right thing to do. I don’t know how much he’s thought of me and my case, professionally speaking. I don’t know if he questions the diagnosis he gave me. I don’t know if he feels badly or guilty or anything at all about his care of me.

I do know that I have thought a lot about him. And the mistake he made.

In the end, I am living happily ever after. And part of doing that requires harboring no ill will. Blogging about him for the past several days forced me to deal with my feelings over the whole debacle. And I can finally say with honesty that I feel no more ill will towards Dr. Socks. I feel nothing for him at all. Plus, I learned that sharing a love of needle arts and 1850’s Victorian British novelists is not a basis for choosing a health care provider.

I have recently been writing about my time as a patient of Dr. Socks. Tomorrow’s post will likely be the last post dedicated to him.

I knew the chance of my running into him at my local yarn shop sooner or later was high. I hadn’t given much thought, however, to what I’d say to him when that day actually came.

Today, I’d tell him this:

Dr. Socks, I think you are a good gynecologist. However, you are not a fertility specialist. And you did me quite the disservice by not sending me to a specialist straight away. You should not have performed any test on me for which you needed the expertise of another doctor to interpret the results.

You relied on the radiologist’s results of my hysterosalpingogram. You admitted to me that you never looked at the HSG films yourself. You based your diagnosis of a very serious condition on that film without setting your own eyes on it because you told me you trusted the radiologist to know what he saw. Radiologists aren’t fertility specialists either. You should have had a fertility specialist look at those films before you gave me the results. Or better, you should have had a fertility specialist run the appropriate tests and not you. You should have had enough confidence in your own practice to know what you didn’t know.

But, Dr. Socks, I forgive you. Because you taught me to trust my own medical instincts. My broken wrist taught me to get a second medical opinion. You taught me that doctors won’t tell you when they are in over their heads. You taught me to be more assertive about my medical care; to question; to follow my gut and KNOW when to seek another’s professional advise. You taught me that I cannot rely on my doctor to refer me away, that I must be hyper-diligent about my own medical treatment.

And best of all, Dr. Socks, your being wrong was the best mistake for me. It FINALLY got me to the specialist that could get me pregnant with my daughter. But still, in the future, tell your patients that there is a place for fertility specialists; that women shouldn’t be reluctant to seek expert advise about an area of medicine that is highly technical and very specialized; that there is no shame in having a fertility problem. And remember, first, do your patient no harm, and that includes giving medical care beyond your expertise.

What did I actually say to him? I’ll post that tomorrow.

I mentioned in my last post my being a patient of Dr. Socks and then sleeping with a lesbian and getting pregnant. I am sure The Google will send all sorts of disappointed visitors to my site with this post, but here’s the rest of the story.

If you did not evacuate your home, your life, for a month or more following Hurricane Katrina, you cannot understand my sense of community upon my return. We had little actual damage ourselves, but the devastation was so vast that all of us were deeply impacted in many ways. And for me, like many of us, I looked for unity, community, continuity.

When I learned my OB/GYN wasn’t returning to town, I was really upset. He worked out of Memorial Hospital and that whole situation was quite distressing. I am not one to just pick any ole doc to be my OB/GYN, so losing my doctor, the doctor I’d used for over a decade, really wigged me out. I asked girlfriends who they used and whether they liked their doctors and I got a lot of lukewarm responses.

One day, I went to my favorite local yarn store. Think of “Cheers” but with yarn instead of beer. I opened the door and heard, “Noooooola!” The shop owner was helping the sole customer in the shop–a man. The one thing you see little of in a knitting shop is the male customer. You will see sad male friends and husbands looking bored silly but few actual male customers.

They were in the needlepoint section of the store looking at the needlepoint canvases and threads. Their conversation, which they included me in on, was about the sad state of medical affairs in the post-Katrina NOLA; the lack of doctors and the high need for care. I mentioned my situation with needing a new OB/GYN. And the proprietor said, “Well, Dr. Socks here is a gynecologist!” [If I told you his real name, you'd pee your pants. Trust me.]

It was a sign.

Here I was struggling to find a gynecologist I could trust and feel comfortable with. And here he was–a fellow customer of the yarn shop! It was meant to be.

So I made an appointment with him. As soon as he saw me he said, “You’re the girl from the knitting store!” His remembering me filled me with confidence in my decision. We talked about his current needlepoint project and my current knitting project. He wore pink argyle socks. Always.

At that first visit, he saw the Anthony Trollope novel in my hands and commented about his love for his work and his disapproval at Trollope’s descendant’s (Joanna Trollope’s) less high-brow work—I hadn’t know Joanna and Anthony were related! [It was at this point that I began to suspect that he was gay. Yeah, I'm slow like that.] Needle arts and Trollope? Really, it was too good to be true.

You can click here to read more of the specific details of things going wrong. Suffice to say, things went really wrong. And against Dr. Socks’ advise, I ended up seeking the help of a local fertility specialist.

Skip ahead five months later.

We were scheduled for our second in utero insemination. CS and I drove in separate cars because afterwards I was driving out of town for an overnight convention. I got to the doctor’s office first and signed in. They called my name; CS hadn’t shown up yet. I went to the exam room and CS showed up about one minute before things got underway. Four minutes later, I was lying on my back giving CS’s guys a fighting chance. CS had brought me a lemon Hubig’s pie (part of the reason he was late).

I munched and watched the clock. After 20 minutes, I jumped up and hit the road. Then I sat in a conference for the next eight hours. No lying around all day for me like I’d done the first time.

That night, I met a fellow attendee of the conference—a very good friend of mine who is also a lesbian—and one of my oldest friends. The three of us had drinks and a rich dinner. Then I went to my hotel room, the room I was sharing with my friend also attending the conference. We had asked for two double beds; we got one king. We were confident enough in ourselves, our sexuality and our significant others to know nothing would happen. So we shared a bed.

She warned me that (1) she snores loudly and (2) she has the tendency to have women who are trying to get pregnant that are near her find themselves pregnant. “One night with me, you’ll be pregnant,” she exclaimed.

That night, she did not snore. But I DID get pregnant.

co·in·ci·dence /koʊˈɪnsɪdəns/ Pronunciation Key – Show Spelled Pronunciation(koh-in-si-duh ns) –noun

syn·chro·nic·i·ty (sĭng’krə-nĭs’ĭ-tē, sĭn’-) -noun

1. The state or fact of being synchronous or simultaneous;
synchronism.
2. Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related,
conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the
same order as causality.

* * * * *

I was watching a murder mystery show the other day and one of the detectives said about clues, “I don’t believe in coincidence.” And that got me thinking. Do I, really, believe in coincidence? In synchronicity?

This past Monday and Tuesday, I posted about a senior partner that died over five years ago. He isn’t mentioned much at my firm these days. Wednesday, while at the office, one of the attorneys I work with brought him up—he’d gotten a piece of mail addressed to the deceased partner on Tuesday.

Or the day of the deceased partner’s funeral, when I was stuck recalling to the IRS how I had calculated this crazy tax loss deduction for a client and after eight hours of not recalling it or being able to get my math to work, I asked the deceased partner to give me the answer and within minutes the answer came.

Or post-Katrina when I needed a new OB/GYN (mine fled to Atlanta never to return) and I found myself in my favorite knitting store and was introduced to Dr. Socks, an OB/GYN. I saw this as a sign. I became a patient of Dr. Socks, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. Or was it? He misdiagnosed me (or the radiologist did and my doc didn’t actually look at the films himself to realize the radiologist was wrong) and sent me down a spiral I wish I never see the depths of again. But that led me to the fertility specialist that gave me Sun.

Or the first date I had with Captain Sarcastic. He saw Hunter Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” on my bookcase and asked me to marry him. I said no. Two years later he’d ask again and I’d say yes.

Or the night I slept with a lesbian and got pregnant.

As a student of law, you learn to look for the “but for” in strings of events. As a genealogist, you look for things to ring a bell: a name on a gravestone, a date on a ship’s log. As someone who is logical and methodical, I tend to look for threads. But, to be honest, as I get older I tend not to give meaning to coincidences. I tend to be of the persuasion that if you look for some “deeper meaning,” some “sign,” you’ll usually think you see it. But that doesn’t give things independent meaning. Sometimes two roads intersecting are just two roads intersecting and not a sign to take a turn.

And I also think that believing in synchronicity discounts a person’s ability to discern. Like that dead partner giving me the answer? A miracle? Or just me finally giving my mind a rest from the stresses of that crazy week for me to refocus and see things clearly? Or my journey with getting to the fertility doctor? I’d already been referred to that doctor and even been to his office but I hadn’t been ready to accept that I had an “infertility problem.” By the time I had dealt with the aftermath of Katrina and the debacle of Dr. Socks, I was in a different mental and emotional state. I was ready to be rational and seek help for a physical problem. CS asking me to marry him on our first date? Frankly, it creeped me out and made me think he was a bit desperate. But I liked that he at least liked HST and I kept an open mind about him. Me sleeping with a lesbian and getting pregnant? Well, that one really is just a coincidence as I’d had an in utero insemination earlier that day. Don’t get worked up—we shared a bed, not sex, at an out of town conference. But.

But what do you feel? Do you believe in coincidence or synchronicity? If so, what’s the coincidence that convinced you they have meaning? If not, why not? Post about it and leave a link to your post here with Mr. Linky so we can all read about it. Don’t let me hear the crickets on this one! I’m really curious.

CS and I are talking about whether to do fertility treatment again for another baby. He reminds me of the stress I endured the first round; the pain with ovarian cysts; the emotional highs and lows.

The fertility treatment we went through, looking back, was not a bad experience. Ok, that first vaginal ultrasound was, er, unexpected. And all modesty ends up checked at the door. But it was all handled very professionally. And the results! We conceived a singleton in five months and had no miscarriages or other negative doings.

But do it all again? I still can’t get behind the idea. Here’s my problems:

1. It is a huge commitment of time. We were in that doctor’s office at least twice a week (sometimes far more than that) and each visit was at least an hour. And he saw patients trying to conceive in the afternoon (and the pregnant ones in the morning–conscientious, eh?) but not after 2:30. I was leaving work early all the time. It was not easy.

2. It is expensive. We went from clomid to the injectables, and did two intra-uterine inseminations (IUI). We spent several hundred to a few thousand dollars each month. And each step, I’d say, “This, but no more.” Clomid, but not injectables. Injectables but not inseminations. IUI but not in vitro fertilization. We got pregnant before I actually had to decide on an IVF. Knowing what I know now, I’d probably have done that too. That is serious coin. At last count, an IVF through my doc was in the neighborhood of $15,000 a pop. None of these expenses were covered by insurance.

(As an aside, if you don’t like needles, don’t consider fertility treatment. They take your blood every visit, and the injectables are just that–shots you give yourself, or in my situation, shots your husband gives you.)

3. The fear I have already discussed about multiples.

And then, add to that list my new concerns:

1. Being pregnant again. I worried so much when I was pregnant. Far more than I do as a mother. Plus, I ain’t getting younger and it gets scarier as I get older. And maternity clothes and back pain again? Not interested.

2. Delivering a baby was no walk in the park. Anesthesia and me, not friends. And the odds are that I’d need to do another c-section. Sliced open like a fillet-o-fish whilst awake. I shudder thinking about it.

3. Re-adjusting to getting a newborn to nurse again? Enduring those sleepless first three months? I love Sun. I cherish every experience I have with her. From her umbilical cord falling off to the countless problems we had getting her to nurse. Her first exploding diaper while Daddy was away for the first time, dealing with her hemangioma. All of it is a gift. I wouldn’t trade one minute, one memory, for anything.

But the stress of fertility treatment, the concern of multiples, the worry of a pregnancy, and the sleeplessness of a newborn really make me stop in my tracks. I know CS wants another child. He’d be okay with multiples. So it’s really up to me.

For now, all I can tell CS is, I’m not ready.