The difference in a year

A year ago, I packed my son in the car in the early morning and picked up my mom. We drove to a clinic. I was 42, and I was about to have my sixth insemination for a second child. The doctor and I had agreed that 7 would be the maximum number, because it was hard on my body, and I wasn't getting any younger.

For the first time in all my fertility treatments (so ninth insemination!), my doctor was the one who did the magic. And I left, to go to a funeral, convinced it had worked. I can't explain why. I just knew, that time. Or hoped. And I was right.

A year later, as I hold both my sons close and try to raise them as best as I can, I feel blessed. Tired, sometimes impatient, but blessed. I was lucky enough that medicine could help me. I was lucky enough to have the resources to do this, and the help to get to this point. I was lucky.

I am lucky. And happy. And tired. And blessed. And I feel full, full of love, armsful of baby boys and there smiles and craziness.