You have to understand what the word “baby” does in our house.
We have three boys.
Nine, seven, and four.
They’re loud, filthy, wonderful children.
Our home is constantly filled with muddy shoes, plastic dinosaurs, baseball gloves, and arguments over whose turn it is to sit closest to the television.
I love my sons more than anything in this world.
But we had always wanted a daughter.
God, we had wanted one.
After our third son was born, my doctor asked James to come into the appointment because she wanted him to hear what she was about to say directly from her instead of hearing it secondhand from me.
At the time, I remember thinking that was strange.
Then I saw her face.
She said the word “probably.”
Not “could.”
Not “there’s a risk.”
Probably.
A fourth pregnancy would probably kill me.
