My last pregnancy was anything but normal.  Liam was conceived on a very planned cycle, with the aid of Clomid.  From the moment I knew I was pregnant (and who am I kidding? probably before I knew I was pregnant too), I was on high-alert.  I was monitored, poked, probed, prodded and tested.  My nerves were frayed and the first three months of that pregnancy were probably the most difficult.  After 12 weeks, I rented the fetal doppler and not a day went by the entire duration where I didn’t check for the heartbeat at least once.  Each doctor appointment was nerve wracking, each ultrasound found me holding my breath.  The last weeks before he was born were filled with non-stress tests and nervous fretting and playing that grandest of old games, “What if”.  The day Liam was born, the moment he was here, I felt the greatest release of pressure ever.  Like a giant sigh of relief.   We had made it through, he was safe in our arms.

This time, it’s different.  This baby was not conceived with Clomid or any other assistance.  I didn’t even think I was ovulating.  Nothing was timed, nothing was done to ensure a pregnancy.  Just a good, old fashioned conception.  A normal one, if you will.  And, seeing as how if everything goes to plan, this will be my last pregnancy I wouldn’t mind having a “normal” nine months.  I know the chances are slim, given our history in this department.  But how wonderful would it be to be able to go in for normal doctor appointments, not worry about what I might (or might not) learn and just get the standard weight, pee, blood pressure treatment.  How about enjoying each and every fluttering movement without worrying about when I’ll feel the next confirmation of life?  Is it possible that I can go to 39 weeks with a scheduled c-section without dissolving into an anxiety attack somewhere after 37 weeks?

I can dream, can’t I?