Will and I are expecting our second baby and it feels like a miracle.
The fact that we actually managed to make a baby seems like a miracle in itself (more like the immaculate conception). Granted, we'd been using what we euphemistically called the "high school method" of birth control for a while (newsflash: umm...it's not so reliable) so it shouldn't have come as such a shocker that I got pregnant. But, with a two-year-old and two full-time jobs, on the rare instances when we did happen to find a moment alone together, we usually had the combined energy of a garden slug.
With our daughter, Julia, we'd planned months ahead of time. I went for the pre-conception checkup. I started taking prenatal vitamins months before we planned to conceive. I ate well. I exercised. I gave up my Diet Coke and red wine. We got busy according to a strictly scientifically-scheduled timetable. And, it didn't work -- not right away, at least. As soon as I got over the initial shock that I was pregnant this time, I mentally ticked off what I'd done the weekend before:
1. Drank a few glasses of wine
2. Downed enough Diet Coke to give 52 lab rats cancer
3. Sat in a hair salon letting chemicals seep into my scalp for a good solid hour
4. Lounged around in a hot tub
5. Moved a piano
I assume it's just a sign of things to come with a second baby, though I was still a nervous wreck about the little life growing inside of me. But, our doctor assured us that all was well, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I hit that longed-for 12-week milestone when the risk of miscarriage drops dramatically. I was literally sitting at my desk reading an online pregnancy calendar, reveling in my 12-week status, when I felt a gush in my underwear. I ran down to the bathroom to find that it was blood -- pouring out of me. "Oh my god," I said out loud, "I'm having a miscarriage."