Raising girls and boys are amazingly different and I’m lucky to have the opportunity to experience this. For example, Lucy slept through the night at 8 weeks old. We sat down, we discussed the importance of a schedule and that mommy really needed at least 6 hours of sleep. Lucy reflected on this issue, agreed with the idea that she would be better served by a rested mother and instantly started sleeping through the night. This is raising a girl, or perhaps it is because she is the eldest. Max, on the other hand, had no regard for my lack of sleep. As a matter of fact he thought it was rather selfish of me to even request such a silly thing when it was obvious that he was both hungry and had no desire to be alone in the middle of the night. This is Max, flagrant disregard for rules, social conventions and a zest for life that can only best be displayed by his painting escapades documented in the previous post. And I wouldn’t want them any other way. Lucy reminds Max of the rules and Max shows Lucy that sometimes it’s fun to draw outside of the lines.

And yet, something has been missing. Somebody is not here. Its like when you sit down at the dinner table and the empty chair is a reminder of an absent person. David and I have an empty chair in our house.

So, about two months ago I peed on the stick of pregnancy fate and it came up positive. Yes Internet, I have returned to the serving counter of babies and said “Yes Sir, may I please have another?” I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m scared. It’s funny how with your first baby you are scared of child-birth. With your second baby you are too ignorant to be scared, but by your third you’re scared of that first year of life. That first year that is marked by not sleeping, a baby that seems to cry for no reason, and carrying enough supplies with you no matter where you go to exist on a small deserted island for at least a month. And at 38 that seems like a really daunting obstacle. And I knew all that when I decided to stop taking the pill. That is the power of being a mother. As women we voluntarily jump into 9 months of feeling terrible, followed by a year of not sleeping and a life-time commitment of worry and devotion. We can’t help ourselves, it’s like a crack addiction.

So Internet, if my posting is late it is because I’m busy trying not to throw-up. If my posts are angry it is because I have enough hormones in me to kill a horse. Welcome to, “Pregnancy: Operation B3”