As the days grew warmer, I still mourned the loss of my soured dreams. Once again I turned to my husband with hopes of renewing our well-rehearsed debate on having more children. Jon was worried. He was worried about me, the turbulent months of my pregnancy with the twins, and the potential toll another pregnancy could take on our content and stable family. He hated the thought of more shots, more stress, and more doctor visits. Above all else, Jon worried about the possibility of having twins again.
However, I sensed a crack in his armor. He was softening. He knew only one thing in this world would fill the aching void I felt, and that one thing was downy soft, sweet smelling (most of the time), and had the power to light up the whole room with one toothless grin.
Finally, he agreed to go through it all again—just one more time for three more cycles, a total time commitment of six months. I screeched, dove for the phone, and made an appointment with an infertility specialist right in Wyomissing, just minutes from our home. With my first pregnancy, I had driven an hour away to Allentown, Pennsylvania. Although I obviously had success with that doctor, I felt the convenience of seeing a respected doctor in our own town made much sense, especially with two busy two-year-olds at home.