It was Sunday morning, eight weeks from my last menstrual period, three weeks since the first faintly pink positive result appeared, ten days since the darkened line confirmed it, and a measly 24 hours until my first prenatal appointment. It was Sunday morning, and I was bleeding.
Marrett and I had been trying for this new baby since May, a mere eight months into our marriage (the second for both of us). We have four children between us, his two girls aged 14 and 11, and a boy for each of us, his newly 6 and mine 5-and-a-half. Though the six of us together have blended into a big happy family, Marrett and I want one more, a baby that will be ours together. And since we are 37 and 42, we were relieved to be pregnant after two months of trying.