Divorced Before 30

In December 2007, our little family grew. Josh and I adopted a rescue puppy named Juna, a tiny white puffball who quickly stole our hearts. She was part husky and part collie, a dainty girl with pointy ears and bright eyes rimmed with dark fur. Tucker seemed pleased to have a companion, though Juna quickly learned that she could herd her new big brother by jutting her rear end in his direction.

Co-parenting the puppy with Josh was both fun and challenging. I played the role of puppy chaser. The fence posts were wider than the puppy, and thus, our yard was susceptible to jail breaks. Most nights she found a way out, so I’d throw on some shoes and sprint down the icy street—sans coat or hat—until I could finally corner Juna and scoop her up. Josh played the role of fence mender, and he spent a good deal of time freezing his ass off in the yard, reinforcing the fence with chicken wire.

Our new home and the addition of Juna made the holiday season extra special. In mid-December, we threw a housewarming party for just about everyone we knew: moms and dads, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, picnic leaguers, book clubbers, college friends, coworkers, lots of kiddos, and even an extra puppy. Our little rambler was packed to the brim, and I’m sure that the laughs, the shrieks, and the puppy yips and yaps could be heard down the block.

Josh and I may as well have been married, what with a Christmas card, a big tree (which Juna joyfully knocked down after first eating a string of lights), and the challenge of celebrating with both of our families. The weekend before Christmas, we did “Sibling Christmas” with my brothers and their significant others at Mancini’s Char House, an old-school supper club in St. Paul. Christmas Eve was spent with Josh’s family for fondue, a gift exchange, and gluttonous cookie consumption. On Christmas Day, we joined my family at Andy and Hilary’s, where we ate ham and rice pudding, showered Ethan with toys, and played my mom’s holiday-themed word games.

The festivities continued through the end of the year. A few days before New Year’s Eve, a bunch of friends gathered at Brad and Missy’s big suburban house for the first-ever “winter picnic league.” Brad and Missy were a fun-loving couple with a cute baby boy named Louis and a recently constructed gingerbread trailer park in their kitchen. They often came up with creative party ideas, and this was no exception. It was bitter cold outside, and both sledding and grilling burgers were on the docket.

While the guys were out on the patio burning stuff, the women gathered in the living room to gab and keep track of the two babies. In addition to Louis, the junior picnic league roster included Spencer and Melissa’s daughter, Piper. Earlier in the evening, Chris and Corri had announced that they were expecting their first baby, so the chitchat naturally gravitated toward all things baby.

I hung back a little and listened to birth stories and nursing advice. I was so happy for the moms and the mom-to-be, but I felt more than a little wistful. None of them knew that I’d had fertility issues. Heck, most of them didn’t even know that I was divorced, and I certainly hadn’t mentioned that my biological clock was ready to, oh, explode.

On the way home that night, I drove slowly, clutching the steering wheel and trying to be strong as big tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried in silence for a few minutes before trying to speak, and when I did, I couldn’t form an intelligent sentence. I could only muster a whimpered “I want to have a baby.” And between sniffles, “So bad.” And Josh took my hand in the kindest way and said, “You will, baby. You will.”