i began talking about child number three when i was pregnant with child number two. this was a pretty bold move for someone who spent nearly four years under the impression that she might not be able to have children at all. but two in vitro attempts led to two successful pregnancies, and for the first time i allowed myself to envision myself with a house full of children.

but the second pregnancy was a tropical storm of emotions. for almost six months we reacted to quad-screen test results by preparing ourselves to welcome a special-needs child. we searched (unsuccessfully) at the offices of specialists and in the many alcoves of the internet for definitive predictions regarding our little bird’s number of chromosomes. if we could have checked out for a while, filled our car with plenty of gas and taken an evacuation route to sunnier pastures, we would have.

but this pregnancy was not like that. it was the constant, embodied awareness of darkness and light, fear and joy, reluctance and exuberance. there was no way out but through.

it’s funny how the female memory works. i can recall and describe the experience of my second pregnancy, but i am no longer capable of conjuring up and experiencing its particular level of agony. likewise, the pain of childbirth and the sleeplessness of the newborn phase are wrapped up and obscured in my head by a spectacular sense of wonder and awe.

saved from the monkey's first haircut

apparently, the male memory does not work this way. when the subject of child number three comes up, my husband, who has become the official keeper of the more base realities of pregnancy, childbirth, and newborn parenting, reminds me of the tropical storm we just barely survived in 2009. “why,” he pleads, “why and HOW could we ever survive that again?”

nevertheless, i have baby lust. ayelet waldmen reminds me that i am not alone:

“other women in the park are having these same internal debates, i think. when a newborn shows up, there’s a pause, a hiccup in the general hubbub. we all stare, misty-eyed. we coo; we ooh. and then someone’s kid whacks someone else’s on the head with a shovel, or a toddler gets stuck on the top of the slide and gives a wrenching shriek, and we all briskly shake off that gentle longing” (bad mother, 182). 

maybe baby lust is merely the biological pull that ensures that the human species will persist. it doesn’t feel like this though. it feels more like standing at the edge of the creative center of the universe. staying outside of it takes almost as much of an emotional toll as bravely venturing in.

these days, motherhood and technology are so intertwined that those who came before us cannot help but marvel at the advances that now equip us for the hardest job we’ll ever love. if you don’t believe me, try counting the number of times this phrase is uttered at the next baby shower you attend:

“i wish those [fill in the blank with the latest baby care contraptions] were around when i was a young mom. we used to have to [fill in the blank with the most laborious and excruciating description of tedium you can imagine] when our children were little.” 

surely you’ve memorized this conversation by now.

but when these comments filled the air at my baby showers, they were especially true. not only would my husband and i benefit from the technology behind the bouncy seat, baby monitors, and breast pump. i got pregnant by the most cutting-edge and constantly upgraded fertility technology offered by modern science: in vetro fertilization. to say that i am thankful for technology would be an understatement.

but this gratitude was tempered during my second pregnancy, wherein i was introduced to the underbelly (pun intended) of technology. my triple screen test showed an increased risk that the bird would have downs syndrome. i saw a specialist, who played around with numbers on a notepad and used gambling metaphors to explain to me the odds that the bird would have downs. my husband and i struggled with whether or not to have an amniocentesis, which would put the baby at slight risk but give us the information we thought we needed in order to gracefully welcome our little one. with uncertainty, we consented to the procedure. twice. and both times, the amnios failed. this was not among the carefully analyzed scenarios for which we were prepared. neither was the ultrasound tech’s false diagnosis of amnio-induced uterine damage, a condition which would likely end the pregnancy. i spent two miserable days in bed, under the covers of guilt and fear, waiting for various doctors and specialists to confer with one another — to interpret the data offered by technology.

it wasn’t until my baby bird was born that we learned that he does not have downs. but while i was pregnant with him (thanks to technological failings, some difficult internal work, and a miracle from god)  i eventually arrived at a place where i did not care whether he had downs or not. the point is that the same bright force that positioned him carefully inside my uterus snatched me suddenly into the shadows of truths not yet revealed.

technology has taken me to the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. yet, it has become like the air i breathe: silent, necessary, and (barring miracle or catastrophy) unnoticed. but living harmoniously with such a powerful force takes a certain daily awareness of its role in my life. it is to this end that i write. i hope to notice and appreciate with reverence the powers that be.

[speaking of technology and the air we breathe, check out i love technology  by heather at theta mom. this account of technology’s role in a family affected by asthma inspired me to write the post above.]