Two years ago, we were in the thick of the molar pregnancy mess. Our weekly betas were slowly falling, and we watched and waited for the end of this desperatly-wanted pregnancy. I think if I’d known that it would take until March–a month shy of Jen’s due date–I wouldn’t have even gotten out of bed on Thanksgiving. We had planned to spend the weekend doing baby-prep stuff to the house. Painting, organizing, etc. My mom came to town anyway (my dad had come the weekend before), and we spent the weekend doing consolation home improvements. NOT the same. Especially since it resulted in the countertop disaster of 2004-2005. But we were trying, dammit, and so were our families.
One year ago, we were hopeful. We had this. I was still terrified that something would go wrong, that this baby would be taken from us too. But each day was a little more hopeful.
Today, I am awake long before my body wants to be. Jen is sleeping off Natalie’s all night nurse-a-thon (someone didn’t tell her that the feast is supposed to be this afternoon). I’m tired. I’m achy. Jen and I are broke. All of our money and then some has gone into the second parent adoption, which we hope will go through before the end of the year. I’m trying to figure out how we can pass off toothpicks or Q-tips as Christmas gifts. And I’ve never been happier. Seriously. Never. This is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I’m thankful with every inch of my soul.