Thanks to everyone for the flood of comments on The Clomid Kid.
It beat out our previous greatest-hits posts on whether you should let a male nurse deliver your baby, or let your toddler ride an ATV. (General consensus on those were yes and no, but you be the judge.)
By the end of the Clomid Kid blog, I realized, I wasn't talking about how babies are made as much as my feelings about how my own babies were made.
(Though a few readers did not seem to get that I was totally kidding about trying to tell a 4-year-old about the pornography room at the local fertility clinics.)
The idea for the Clomid Kid post came after wandering through our popular Boston.com Moms TTC message board (which means Trying To Conceive, if you're fortunate enough not to know the lingo.)
Reading some of those posts brought back a lot of emotions -- the constant cycle of hope, waiting, medication, blood draws, doctors, misery and renewed hope.
The feeling that everyone else has set out on the Happy Family Cruise with live music and free champagne cocktails, while you are desperately paddling to keep up in your pathetic, leaky canoe.
When Dennis was born, I put all the co-pay receipts, ultrasounds, and doctor's letters into a scrapbook, compiling what may be the world's weirdest baby book.
But four years of impersonating a Normal Mom -- spending $2,400 per month on daycare, wearing stained shirts and not caring, chasing after sippy cups, and writing a parenting blog -- have made me question whether all that even matters anymore.
Ultimately, I decided it all still matters to me. A lot.
But, as many of you pointed out, maybe it doesn't need to matter so much to Dennis or his sister.
If back in early 2004 I could have seen this future, I would have laughed until I cried. (Or, recalling my mood back then, there's a decent chance Old Me would have told Future Me to @#% off.)
At least there is time to work it all out. Last night, Dennis was carrying a doll around under his t-shirt, so she could be "borned."
The doll plonked to the ground, and he crowed in delight.
I said, "Dennis, where did your baby come from?"
He said, "Natick!"
What do you think? Leave a comment above, or send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org
about the author
Erica Noonan is chief of the Globe West bureau. Before joining the Globe in 2000, she worked for the Associated Press in Boston. Raised in Wellesley, she has a master's degree in political communication from Emerson College and a BA in political science from Trinity University in San Antonio. She lives in Natick with two energetic children: Dennis, 6, and Lila, 4.
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