There is nothing like going to a doctor’s appointment to discuss birth control and being politely informed that you are pregnant (again).

My husband had two children before we married. We planned to have one together, but that one (The Genius) opened the floodgates. We had a child every other year like clockwork. Almost. We had a miscarriage between the second and third, but our daughter was born a year (to the day!) after the loss. She was supposed to be the last.

I should have known something was up. Throughout that spring, The Genius kept rubbing my belly and asking, “Who’s in there?” I laughed it off at first, but he persisted for months. It wasn’t so funny after the positive pregnancy test.

I knew I was ready to be finished having children because of how upset I was at the prospect of having another child. I was downright mean to my husband and I cried and complained for a month. Then the morning sickness began and I kicked my hatefulness up a few notches. God bless my husband! Not only did he put up with the abuse, but he also spoke life into me. He carried me.

It took a few months, but I grew excited about the little person relentlessly kicking me in the diaphragm. He was born two days after my birthday, a couple of weeks before his due date. Now, The Monster is approaching two years old and he is a tiny version of my husband: brilliant, handsome, fearless. He gets into everything within his reach, which has grown considerably since the summer. He jumps constantly and climbs anything that will make him feel taller. He commandeers his siblings’ toys and fiercely defends his territory. The Monster is a cyclone, a force to be reckoned with. What am I going to do?

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