What's One More?

Yes, yes, I hear you snickering out there: you've noticed I can't button my pants. You have been marveling at the fact that my arse has expanded to three times its original size in a mere week and a half.

No, I did not eat an entire box of donuts for a mid-morning snack. I have not had four Whoppers with Cheese for dinner the past six weeks. I have a good excuse:

For those of you who have lost count, I believe that will bring the total to SIX around here, should this little project come to fruition (although I take nothing for granted).

I remember reading Cheaper by the Dozen as a girl, and telling my mother I wanted twelve kids TOO. She guffawed and muttered darkly, something like, "Just wait until you find out how hard babies are..."

But hey, even reaching 50% of that goal is still pretty laudable, yes?

The first trimester is just such a cruel prequel to the whole thing. I always start out each pregnancy with grand thoughts: "I am going to stay in shape! I won't gain too much weight!" And then a few days later I am hunched over, shoveling eight sticks of string cheese into my mouth and chasing them with a cup of eggnog, in a desperate 14,000 calorie attempt to curtail "morning" sickness. Ugh, the pukiness has been bad this time - like I have a severe hangover as a passenger on a leaky dinghy in the vicinity of the Bermuda Triangle.

And, I think: I'll keep going to the gym! I'll keep up my little jogging routine! But that, too, went way by the wayside weeks ago, after a petrifying week and a half of spotting made me loathe to get out of bed, much less exercise.

So while it's still early, I hope everything goes well. I don't know if it's a commentary about how crazy I am - how could I possibly want another when I have FIVE? - or how fiercely a mother loves each of her children from the moment they are bittier than lima beans, but when I thought I might lose this baby I dove headfirst into a deep well of despair.

And I know that I'm supposed to feign horror at the thought of ANOTHER child.  But when the ultrasound this morning showed that everything looked good so far, I just felt really really LUCKY, plain and simple.  Lucky that at my ripe old age I might have another healthy kid.  Lucky that despite the fact I am not a great mom - I drink, I cuss, I watch "Real Housewives" - I might be blessed with another child.  I don't deserve all this sheer BOUNTY.  So many women struggle with infertility, multiple miscarriages.  I am thankful, and I am lucky.

So there you go.

And for those of you, who, like some of our relations, find our bringing a sixth child into the world is, at best, in exceedingly poor taste, or, at worst, breathtakingly irresponsible, all I can say to you is that I'm doing my damned best.  If it's any consolation, I probably won't have a kid-free moment until sometime in 2017.

Wish me luck, you all.