Diary of a Second (Surprise!) Pregnancy
Sometimes you try to get pregnant; other times, it just happens. Here, one mother's memories of a bumpy nine months.

By Jessica Hartshorn

I'm Pregnant
Our first child was planned -- it took six months to conceive, which felt like forever at the time. The second came by surprise. "Our love child" is what my husband dubbed it and our "birth control mistake" was my grumpy response. I wanted a second child, but a surprise pregnancy -- as well as a second pregnancy -- can bring conflicting emotions. Here, a little of what I went through, jotted down so that other women battling ambivalence might relate.

Week Seven: I feel fatigued for days. Getting up early to take relatives to the airport one morning wipes me out. That afternoon I eat queso dip and complain the rest of the day about nausea. "Are you pregnant?" my cousin jokes. "I hope not -- I'm on the pill!" I say flippantly.

The next day, still sick, I root under the sink for a pregnancy test. It's the kind that tells you in words that you're either "not pregnant" or "pregnant" so there's no misreading it a minute later: pregnant. I shout, "Oh, no!"

My first fear: that because I've been taking the mini-pill (a low-dose birth control pill, safer to take while nursing), I've given the baby three heads. Or that I'll miscarry. My second fear: that I am going to be a mother of two, ready or not. My first happy thought: I'll get to buy newborn clothes again!

The Beginnings
Week eight: The mini-pill, taken properly, is effective birth control while you're breastfeeding. I, however, stopped nursing a month ago and was too lazy about switching to the full-dose pill. My doctor assures me that the mini-pill probably did no harm to the embryo, but she wants to do a sonogram to check for a heartbeat. There it is, strong and sure. We send flowers to the grandparents along with notes that say, "Happy Birthday April 27th-ish." Next I tell coworkers, mainly because I'm bad at keeping secrets. Everyone's enthusiasm cheers me, but I still feel vaguely tricked into this pregnancy.

Week eight, continued: I go to a trade show across the country, and it's not pretty. At some point my legs simply give out. Sitting on the convention center floor, I call my husband, Byron, and ask him if feeling unhappy is bad for the baby. "If you think bitter thoughts, the baby will taste bitter," he jokes, "and you'll want to nibble the baby."

I try to stay upbeat. But my mom is with me, watching Grace, and Mom feels compelled to discuss finances (we have none) and childcare (ditto -- our sitter moved across the country). The weekend ends with me lying on the hotel bed sobbing, sure that my life -- already stretched thin -- will fall to pieces when this new child is born.

Changing Body
Week nine: Whether you're pregnant for the first time or the fourth time, it's hard to accept that your body is hijacked. I'm fighting resentment, because I keep dwelling on how I barely got to feel like "me" again. Grace just turned 2, was amusing herself for 15-minute stretches, and sleeping well. We had just stopped breastfeeding. I joined Weight Watchers and dropped 5 pounds. I went to a Prince concert with friends. I had some great laughs with my husband. Now, I'm sick and tired -- really sick and tired -- and wallowing in self-pity.

Is the baby a blessing? Of course. But must I wait another three years to feel like myself again? It's for the best, my doctor says. "My patients are happier when they have their babies in a row," she tells me, explaining, in a nutshell, that the sooner you get your childbearing over with, the sooner your body is "yours" again.

I'm still pessimistic, but it's partly due to the horribleness of the first trimester. "Eat crackers," a pharmacist says, for nausea. "Drink just one cup of coffee," my doctor says, for fatigue. Yeah, those help...for a few minutes. For about 23 hours a day I feel unbelievably ill.

Week thirteen: The nausea and fatigue are not lifting. Every afternoon I take a 30-minute nap on the floor at work and don't care if colleagues walk in on me. But my spirits are buoyed by a nuchal translucency ultrasound, a screening test during which a technician examines the baby's neck for signs of Down syndrome. The baby looks adorable.


I'm Lucky...
Week fifteen: I do know I'm lucky. Half of all pregnancies are unplanned, and many of those couples are not at all prepared for a child. A friend of mine -- a month ahead of me in pregnancy -- is one such case. The father of her child, an ex-boyfriend, refuses to speak to her. She's moved in with her parents, quit her job, and is trying to come up with a new life as a single mom. She makes me feel silly for complaining at all.

Week eighteen: Months of nausea come more or less to an end. Acid reflux, leg cramps, a sinus infection, hemorrhoids, and varicose veins set in. And yes, it's true, your stomach pops out a lot faster when it's not your first baby.

Week twenty: The moment we've been waiting for: the anatomy scan! Byron is rooting for a boy -- less competition for Grace, and it's nice to have one of each, he reasons. I understand. But I'd still like a girl -- they have to share a bedroom, and there's $1,000 worth of girl outfits in our basement. In the hour and a half we have to wait for our appointment, however, we focus only on boy names. Byron vetoes Henry, and I can't warm up to Harris. But we both like Joe.

Five minutes into the scan the technician announces, "There's your son!" Byron and I clap, and cry, and after the appointment run straight to Baby Gap to buy (healthy-looking, thank goodness) Joe some clothes. I start introducing my belly to people as "Joe."

Back at home, I split Grace's old baby clothes among four friends. What I can't part with, a friend is making into a quilt. I feel pangs saying bye to Grace's baby things. When I think about having the chance to hold an infant again, I tear up -- I'm finally glad Joe is on the way. Parenting a newborn is hard, but I do want to do it just one more time.

Week twenty-two: Though physically I'm in the worst shape of my life -- not eating well, not exercising enough, sleeping restlessly -- I'm one of those lucky women who get a surge of feel-good hormones during the second trimester. I feel stupidly optimistic. I have months to find childcare! Money will come from somewhere!

Week Number What?
Week twenty-eight: Byron and I tour a birthing center. I wanted a natural birth with Grace but, in the end, had an epidural, and I'll sheepishly admit it was fabulous. Nevertheless, my ob-gyn is having me consider the birthing center and no drugs this time. I vote for the hospital. "We can still do the birth naturally in the hospital," my doctor says, and I just nod.

Week twenty-nine: Here's the primary question you get with a second baby: "Is (fill in the name of your first child) excited?" Grace, at 2 1/2, is not old enough to really get it. We read books about siblings, play with a doll, and talk about how Joe will live with us. We visit a friend's newborn, and Grace feeds me my daily vitamin (we call it the Joe-growing pill). But from the shy and embarrassed look she gets when I go on about Joe, I'm beginning to believe that she thinks Joe is Mommy's imaginary friend, and that Mommy is a little crazy.

Week where-are-we? At some point I lose track of what week I'm in. I feel like I've been pregnant forever.

Before Grace's birth I eagerly devoted extra time to my husband and my cat. This time, the cat is barely on my radar, my husband gets only a daily peck on the cheek, and I concentrate on quality time with Grace. I take her on another business trip, go with her to music class every Saturday, and cuddle her to sleep (yes, I wedge my huge self into her tiny toddler bed). Maybe it's a mistake: Will she feel the loss of my attention even more when Joe arrives? But I try not to second-guess myself.

Week 35: So much for the feel-good days -- I'm back to being a basket case. I cry over everything: Grace's artwork, an essay on motherhood, that last, tear-jerking episode of Sex in the City.

Baby Wants Out
Week 36: Joe is cooked! I'm thankful he won't be a preemie. Other good news: Grace's sometime-sitter wants to be Joe's nanny. Though probably not for free.

Week 39: Grace was a week late so of course I assume this baby will be late too. Then five days before the due date, contractions start. They're light but I get ready: Joe is coming!

Contractions continue for a day. Then another day. Now I'm getting pissy. Granted, they don't really hurt and only come every half hour, but how long is this going to go on? I decide the solution is to walk the 3 miles to my ob-gyn's office for a checkup. By the time I get there, I feel like labor is really upon me. But she announces, "You're not even 1 centimeter dilated."

I send Byron off to work and go out with family for lunch. Contractions now come every 10 minutes. By the time we get home, they're every five and they hurt -- a lot. Stupidly, I resist calling the doctor, as if I were doomed to be in labor forever. Then she calls me. "How are you feeling?" she asks. "Not so good," I moan. She tells me to get Byron back home and proceed to the hospital.

There, I get the epidural and a few hours later, Joe is born after only four (four!) pushes. When asked later how labor was, I don't know whether to say it took forever or was really fast. In the end, that sums up the whole pregnancy. It was slow and a blink of time, both good and bad, unexpected and yet now, such a normal part of our family's story. And I love Joe so much, there's honestly nothing I want more than to be his mommy.

Jessica Hartshorn is the senior lifestyle editor of American Baby magazine.

Originally published in American Baby magazine, December 2005.