For some unexplicable reason, whenever my husband and I hear that someone is expecting a baby, we automatically do the mental math to determine exactly when conception took place.
Oddly disturbing, I know.
It's not that we care to know the intimate details of other couples' lives, but rather it's their state of mind that intrigues us. As in, wow, it was at that time that year when they were so in love and so secure in their relationship that they decided to create new life.
At least that's how it was for us, anyway.
I'll spare you from having to do the math and just tell you that it was exactly one year ago that we opted to conceive a child. Unsure as to whether we actually even wanted to become parents, at age 31 we decided that it was now or never. If it took, great. But if not, then that was okay too. At least we could say we tried.... and then go on to live happily as DINKS, travelling the world without anything holding us back.
But, obviously, it took. And although Marina has been in our arms for 13 weeks and four days, she's officially existed with us for one full year.
Marina is our 9/11 baby, nine years later.
We actually feel guilty about how easy the whole thing was. With countless friends and relatives who struggled for years to conceive their first child -- and some who continue to struggle -- we didn't fully believe it would work. But from a genetic standpoint, we shouldn't have been so surprised with the end result.
With six kids in my husband's family and eight in mine, it's clear that we come from fertile stock!
We know there's more to it than simple genetics, but how else can we explain it? Maybe we're just lucky in that regard, or maybe it was just our time. Regardless, this past year has certainly been an exciting adventure, and each new day promises to bring more of the same.