One in three pregnancies end in miscarriage. I’m not sure if this includes early pregnancy losses, where the woman may not have even known she was pregnant. Whether it does or not the 1 in 3 stat makes miscarriage common.


f7bksvogwu-bonnie-kittleWe have two happy healthy boys. And now I have had my second (probably third) miscarriage.

Steve and I were not sure about having another one. Our life is wonderful. Why mess with that?

For a daughter? For a longer time in the age of magic? Because despite heady topper toppers, and inspired renovation projects Steve and I will never create anything more incredible than little people. Who grow quite quickly into big people. We decided to not decide. Which of course meant we would probably do it. And right away that double line on the test. Immediate happiness. Clear thrill. Those early days of pregnancy before you start thinking of getting the baby OUT. Before real sickness or exhaustion. Just the test, the due date calculator. The re-pregnancy test for the darker line (admit it people). Pulling out the tests to show the boys, showing them the new one, watching them figure out what it means. Explaining that this MAYBE means a baby. Which causes confusion in Leo, and a bit of relief in Oliver.

Then the loss.

This loss was physically hard, much harder than the first one which had the quick clinical D&C  and obviously emotionally draining. But it was made much much easier by my sons. One of whom responded to the news of my pregnancy with “but you can hardly handle two kids, why would you have a third?”

Why indeed?

We have replaced ourselves on the planet. We are done with day care. We are done with diapers and choking risks and wrestling kids into snowsuits. We are over the deep deep hatred of socks.  We can travel. We fit at a four top.

And now the choice again. Or the illusion of choice. We have learned that it is not really in our control.

I am old now. I am overweight still. Losing a pregnancy sucks. Having an infant can suck too. Sleep deprivation sucks.

Spent the morning in the kindergarten classroom for the author’s breakfast. Each tiny writer “read” aloud their stories with families cheating them on. With 8 boys and 3 girls in the class there were more snakes and dead dogs than princesses, weddings, and rainbows. I felt comfortable with the dogs, even the dead ones. An almost two year old staggered around in his corduroy paints offering everyone bites of bagel from his mouth. Leo giggled. “Do you like baby drool? That bagel comes with baby drool.”

Do I?

No. Not particularly.

I don’t know which part of it is giving me the most hesitation. Upsetting the balance of our life, the risk of an unhealthy baby, the risk of an unhealthy me, or dealing with another miscarriage. I don’t know. I really don’t like baby drool. But my almost 7 year old is utterly amazing.

How do we make a decision like this one?


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Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble,, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at

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