I didn’t mean to get pregnant with Babboo. That’s right, my Sweet Babboo was an accident. An oops! An unplanned and unexpected pregnancy.

In the grand scheme of things, he was very much planned. Just maybe not for that specific month.

When I found out I was pregnant with Babboo we had just returned from a glorious (and topless) vacation in Tulum, Mexico. I thought my period was so late because of the international traveling.

Or because of all the fish tacos I ate.

(Have you ever eaten a fish taco from a street vendor in Mexico? If not, I highly recommend it.)

My period was late and I wasn’t too concerned. You see, I had spent the last seven months pregnant. I knew what being pregnant felt like. I knew what day I ovulated. Day 14, just like most women. I knew what days I had participated in acts that would render me knocked-up.

As far as I was concerned, I was not pregnant. Being pregnant was not on my radar.

If you’re new here to holaisabel.com you might have missed the few times where I mentioned that Babboo was actually my third pregnancy. After experiencing two miscarriages at 9 weeks pregnant I discovered that I am the proud recipient of a genetic blood disorder that allows my body to self-abort fetuses.

After discovering why my body kept rejecting perfectly good babies and learning how to avoid the repeat occurrence, The King and I decided to hold off on trying to make another baby. At this point we knew that I could get pregnant at the drop of a hat (you know, a hat covered in semen). We also knew that going through yet another miscarriage might physically break our hearts in two.

And so we had stopped thinking about babies and the art of making babies. At least until the hole in our hearts healed.

Months passed and we slowly forgot pushed the memory of our miscarried babies out of our minds. I boxed up the few pieces of maternity wear I had purchased. I put away my copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” and life went back to normal.

I looked at my planner. Again. And then again. I checked the dates and noted my markings. (Like most woman who are of baby-making age, I was a pro at tracking my cycle, even though we weren’t actively trying to get pregnant. Dude at this point we were actively trying to not get pregnant.) Since I had the two pregnancies to prove it, I knew without a showdown of a doubt what day I ovulated. And honey, my notes indicated that nothing sex-ay had occurred near those dates.

And yet, still no visit from my monthly friend visitor nuisance.

On a whim I bought my one and only pregnancy test from The Dollar Store we passed on the way to dinner with friends who lived in the ‘burbs.

As I recall I took the test the next day. Or maybe even the day after that. What was the hurry? While it was a little daunting to find a cup I wanted to pee in and very confusing to figure out how to mix the powders and what to use to dip, I was pretty sure I took the test correctly.

After the allotted time I got the No Loser, You Aren’t Pregnant! message from my $1 pee stick. I went and informed The King and patiently waited for my period to start flowing. Fifteen minutes later and still no period. (Hey, I honestly thought it was all psychological and as soon as I knew I wasn’t pregnant, my period would arrive.) Eventually I went back to the bathroom and more specifically, the trash can.

I looked at the pee stick again. Against my better judgment. I knew they pregnancy test people say to never look at “delayed results”. But um, my $1 pregnancy stick was now very surly stating that I was with child.

I was horrified. How had this happened? I mean, besides the whole “semen meet egg” thing, how did this happen? I was a pro at getting pregnant. I seriously knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what day of my cycle resulted in babies. I had control of my body and my fertility. I had proven it two previous times.

I told The King about our impending parenthood and with a blank look on my face I went back to my planner and rechecked my schedule (again!). Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little “x” on day 21 of my cycle.

For those of you that aren’t familiar with the key to my cycle schedule (and hey, why would you be), an “x” means I engaged in sexual activities that day.

I quickly flipped back to September. The month of my first conception. Yep, another “x” on day 21.

And then I looked at January. Day 21. Another damn “x”.

And now I looked at June and saw the third, and most recent “x”.

Day 21.

I had it all wrong. All this time I was dead a@@ wrong. Those months of tracking and counting and being so careful I had it wrong.

I was like one of those pregnant teenagers that realizes that you can, in fact, get pregnant on your first time, or standing up, or in a hot tub, or any other myth out there.

We were okay with being pregnant again. While it was a shock and a surprise, clearly The King and I weren’t against having a baby together.

We were simply against miscarriages.

A quick call to my doctor assured us that this time, there would be no miscarriages. With the help of some simple vitamins and a few other things she pert near promised us that this pregnancy would grant us a take-home-baby.

And thus we looked forward to the upcoming 34 weeks with anticipation and hope.

Of course the pregnancy went off without a hitch and we got the best take-home-baby in the world. At least we think so.

I still keep my planner updated with a little “x” every now and again. And I remind myself that it’s day 21, not day 14.

DAY 21!

My mom is one of six kids.

My dad is one of nine.

I am one of four.

The King is one of two.

Babboo is currently just one of one.

And, for now, that seems to work for us.

Nothing against only children, but I don’t want it to stay this way forever. Eventually I would like to see another positive pregnancy test. I would like to (and this is hard to even type) get huge and miserable and be pregnant again. I would like to choose another baby’s name and snuggle a newborn. I would like to breastfeed again. I’d also like for Babboo to have a younger sibling to play with tease and teach. I want to get adorable Christmas pictures of kids in front of the tree.

This is the easy part.

The hard part is trying to decide that we’re ready to deal with no sleep. Or waking up every few hours to breastfeed. Or taking away our precious time with Babboo. Or pumping in the closet at work. And let’s not even talk about daycare. Because dude, that alone may convince us to never have another child.

And I hate that.

I hate that outside issues are the deciding factors in us expanding our family. I hate that money rules the decisions. I hate that we’re not getting any younger. Hate.

When really all I want is to add more love to our lives.

Even if we can move past all of these other issues, how do you know when it’s the right time to have another baby? I figure it would be good to get pregnant the same time as before. That way I’ll have the correct season of maternity clothes. And if it’s a boy, all of Babboo’s clothes will work. (Oh yes, this is how my mind works.) This plan sounds good on paper. But dude, that isn’t that far off. I’m not sure that I’m ready. And although I can get pregnant just by looking The King in the eyes, it’s keeping the babies that is hard.

Let’s be honest, I’m not sure that I’m ready to deal with any more miscarriages.

Plus, I just can’t seem to think of Babboo as anything other then my baby. How can I be ready for another baby when I already have a perfectly good baby?

And then I see a picture like this and realize he isn’t such a baby anymore.

And I long for pictures like this.

So tell me, what is the mathematical equation to determine when to have another baby?*

*Extra credit points to those who can also determine the equation on deciding how many kids to have.

Babboo is a year old today. It’s been an amazing year and nothing I could say would be an accurate desciption of the amount of love we have for our little guy. He has changed our lives and made us better people.

In honor of this special day, I finally present you with the birth story, that I should have posted a long time ago.

Click to read the story and see a video of his first year on this earth.

View the rest of this entry…

We were scheduled to be induced yesterday.

We sat by the phone all day long.

They never called.

I called this morning.

They just called me back.

We’re #3 in line to be induced today.

They haven’t called anyone in yet.

We’re thinking this isn’t going to happen today.

In fact, I’m not sure this is ever going to happen at this point.

I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday. I think the doctor gasped out loud when she found out that I’ve been working all week. Which means that today is officially my.last.day!

An induction has been scheduled for Sunday. The King and I will be “on call” that day until they are ready for us.

My Mom arrives tomorrow.

Thanks to Frema for giving me something post about today. Frema, you are my hero.

Six Weird Things About Isabel:

1- I check the shower when I get home. You know, to make sure that someone isn’t hiding in there, ready to pounce and kill/rape/harm/maim me. You think I’m kidding? I’m not. This is a new thing since we’ve moved into our apartment. Not sure where it came from. But I’m pretty sure it constitutes for a “weird thing”.

2- This is something that I don’t usually tell people. Until I’ve known them for a long time. And can trust them. Can I trust you? Okay. I have no nasal septum. None at all. Maybe I did at one point. But I don’t anymore. I discovered this one day in the shower when I was about 24. It freaks me out. It freaks The King out. It would freak you out. I have seen a doctor about it and there is nothing they can do for me. All he said was to lay off the coke. Um, okay. I will continue laying off the coke.

3- When I wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble sleeping, I do the alphabet in my head. Backwards. I’ve gotten pretty good at it, so it isn’t as hard as it used to be. But it still can put me to sleep. Try it, you might like it.

4- I didn’t know there was a difference between a car that had a manual transmission or an automatic. Even after I got my driver’s license. I had just always seen my parents drive manuals, so that’s really all I knew about. I can only drive manuals. Driving an automatic is too hard for me.

5- In my younger days I had a goal to kiss a boy who’s name started with every letter in the alphabet. (What is it with me and the alphabet?) Oh there was an actual list, that I kept updated. I had a lot of “J’s” and “K’s”, but that “Y” is a killer. I threw the list away right before I moved out to Seattle to marry The King. (Does this constitute as “weird” or just “slutty”?)

6- I always have a tissue with me. Always. I tell The King that it’s what I like about being me. I never have to worry about not having a tissue. (This may relate to #2 and my “nose issues”.) I keep them in my pants pocket, my purse, my desk drawer, my bedside table, even my pajamas pocket. This really isn’t the “weird” part. The “weird” part is that they aren’t necessarily clean tissues. I use them until they are dead. Which is super gross. The King hates, hates, hates it. He’s always is telling me to “throw that damn snot rag away!”

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And because I have the same fear as Frema and just can’t bring myself to post more than once a day, here’s the e-mail exchange between The King and I this morning in regards to the Lotto pool we do at work:

The King: Get us in on that Lotto. And maybe get us our own ticket too. It’s up there now. Up there. What an awesome way to start the kid’s life… rich.

Isabel: I only have $3 and that’s for lunch. I had to buy deodorant this morning.

The King: You better get 20 bucks out of the bank then. It’s an investment, baby. Lottery addiction needs to be fed, not starved. If you’re really going to be a lottery player, you need to understand that it’s about sacrifice.

Isabel: Is that why Jesus likes it? Because he’s into sacrifice?

The King: I guess. You’d have to ask him. As long as he doesn’t have the winning number, we’re cool. Real, hardcore players use their lunch money to buy tickets. That’s all I’m saying. It’s an easy decision for them, between the chance of winning $220MM and smelling like Teen Spirit. You’re competing with a group of very serious players in this game and you need an edge if you want to win.

I just want to know when I became so “hardcore” in my life.

Hey, remember how I’m overdue? Yeah, I didn’t forget either.

At this point I have just decided that I am never going to have this baby. And that’s fine, because really, I’ve heard it hurts. And I remember that I’m not so good with pain.

In an effort to think and write about something other than how uncomfortable I am, how sick of coming into work everyday I am, and to forget that I have to go to the bathroom every 30 minutes, I give you scanned pictures of my youth:

Loot at me. I’m nekkid. And happy. This may have been the first and last time my Mom actually did anything with my hair. From this point on, I was in charge of styling my own hair. Which is why my hair was always bad. I would have to wait until my Grandma was in town visiting to get my hair done. She did the best french braids. Ever.

This is my family. Aren’t we cute? The 70’s were a good time. Mostly because my two younger siblings hadn’t been born yet. It’s funny to look back at pictures of my older brother and say “how did we not know he was gay?” Because, seriously.

This is my 6th birthday party, back when we lived in Oregon. Notice that my Mom is trying to tell me something. But mostly I just want her to shut up and let me open my presents, damn it. Judging by the hair style her and I both shared, I think she’s saying something like, “Did you see the Triple Lutz that Dorothy Hamill did at the last Olympics?” My Mom hasn’t changed so much. She still won’t shut up and she still sports the “Dorothy Hamill Wedge Cut”. Which may have been cute in the 80’s but isn’t so cute anymore.

My Dad went back to school around this time in my life to become a teacher. He took lots of photography classes. Which means there are many “artsy” photos of my as a child. When I think of “artistic photos of children”, I think of “child porn”. But this wasn’t that type of “artistic”. Although the length of my shorts is quite daring.

My love affair with all things stylish started about here. With the awesome shawl. That I wore all the time. And wasn’t very stylish at all. My Mom also had one, so I loved to wear mine when she would wear hers. Why she let me get a way with this is beyond me. What you don’t see in this picture is that under this shawl I’m wearing a t-shirt and shorts. “Aww, it’s summer. But a shawl is still needed for dramatic effect.”

My grandma must have been in town when this picture was taken. How can I tell? 1) My hair is done up 2) I’m wearing a dress she made me 3) My brother trying to act normal to get her to like him the best.

(again, tell me how we didn’t know he was gay?)

Yes, I have lived in a trailer court. And lived to tell about it.

This is fast becoming a “we didn’t know he was gay?!” photo essay. Because look at his perm in this photo. Yes, my brother made my Mom give him perms. He would save up his money over the summer and buy a perm kit for my Mom to do his hair with. I’m not sure how long it took until my Mom finally put her foot down and refused to perm his hair. I don’t remember making fun of his hair back then. I was too busy perfecting my posture. Check it out.

Sometime in 1983 I figured out the pose I would use in just about every picture taken of me from this time forward. Yes, this is the pose. Either that or I was a very angst ridden 8 year old. But not too angst ridden to show off some thigh. But no ankles. No, showing my ankles would be scandalous.

I present you now with the stars of the play “The Reluctant Dragon”. Our school put it on and my brother and I both got leading roles. I was the fair-maiden, of course. And he was the studly Knight, of course. Look at him trying to butch it up for the camera. Gay? No way.

There is no photographic proof that I was ever a teenager. Which is too bad, because I was so pretty and totally was in style and never wore clothes that added to the fact that I was probably a little too chubby and had horrible, horrible hair and bad teeth. Yes, it’s too bad there are no pictures of that.

Instead I leave you with this picture of my friend and I in Vegas last year. Although we were too mature to actually see the Thunder From Down Under, we were not too mature to take a picture of us rubbing the poster.

And then because I just think it’s cute, here is a picture of The King as a baby. I’m so curious to see if my little guy looks like him.