So, I was getting through another July 3rd, and ay yi yi, Josh and I were in full-on crisis mode. All inessential spending had screeched to an immediate halt since he’d been laid off the week before. However, Josh’s resourcefulness was impressive, and he had an interview that very afternoon at a local university. Given the state of the economy, it seemed like a good idea to get out of the start-up world and into something a little more stable.

Much to my delight, Josh came home from the interview flying high. He wasn’t usually prone to giddiness, but he was so happy about the interview that he’d stopped on the way home to hit the Surdyk’s wine sale and pick up a couple of steaks. It was a little indulgent since he was technically unemployed, but hell, he was optimistic, and it was good to see. July 3rd was redeeming itself, and I couldn’t complain about an impromptu barbecue for two.

As Josh ran to the gas station for some propane, I took the opportunity to soak in the tub before dinner. It had been a stressful week, and I was so relieved that he might have a job lined up already. I put on the radio, slipped out of my work clothes, and eased myself into the warm water. I’ve always been a bath person. Sure, the shower is great on a quick-and-easy, day-to-day basis, but the bathtub is pure peace.

What happened next is a blur, but within five minutes of leaving the tub, I was standing at the front door, desperate for Josh to return. Everything was moving at an unearthly pace, and he couldn’t get back soon enough. A new emotion swirled through my body, and I was overcome with shock. Josh finally opened the door, and I looked up at him with wide eyes. “Honey,” I said, “we’re going to be parents.” Thanks to one champion sperm and an e.p.t., the 3rd of July made the list: Best Days Ever.

*****

Blog Housekeeping

Dear readers, here marks the end of the wonderful journey that has been my blogoir. I can’t thank you enough for your readership, your comments, and your support! This project has been the first draft of a full-length memoir, and I plan to begin working on the next draft (off-line) immediately. In approximately one week, I’ll be launching a new blog that will be written in the present tense. Stay tuned here for that announcement!

In the mean time, I need your advice. My intention is to write more about what I learned about love and marriage through this experience, and I don’t want to limit my audience to only those who have been through a divorce. There are much more universal themes at play here. So, what do YOU want to see in the book version of Divorced Before 30? Are there specific subjects or characters that you’d like to read more (or less) about? Please leave your suggestions in the comments below. Don’t be shy!

Again, thank you!

The big day had finally arrived. I’d been working so hard for this—all those bowls of ice cream, the many miles I hadn’t run. The five pounds I’d willingly gained in my quest for motherhood. It had all come down to this. So I ran out to buy a copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility and started charting my body temperature and other, um, indicators. I stocked up on prenatal vitamins and pregnancy tests and let me tell you, I was thrilled.

We promised to keep it a secret, because most people wouldn’t understand why we would do such a thing pre-ring. Plus, I didn’t want anyone asking me how things were going. I’d seen too many friends struggle to get pregnant, and I was prepared for it to take a long time—maybe we’d even get married first. So mum was the word. Except, I cheated and told my therapist because I knew she would provide the squeal that I needed to hear.

At the end of the month, we went to Iowa to see Josh’s brother, Andy, graduate from college. It was a great chance to spend more time with Josh’s family, and I even felt genuinely happy when I saw the big diamond that Andy’s fiance was wearing. It turns out that I wasn’t all that concerned about getting engaged. After all, I’d been there, done that, and I could say from experience that there’s nothing magical about a ring. I was just happy to be moving toward the next phase of my life with a wonderful man. I didn’t know what the future held, but I finally knew that Josh was serious about his future holding me.

While Josh didn’t give me a green light, he bought a very nice gift for my birthday. I was the proud owner of my first digital camera. He was careful to buy one with just the right specs—he’s good at sorting through models and reading reviews. It was perfect, and we had an action-packed weekend to document.

On Friday night—my actual birthday—we went to dinner at 112 Eatery, the restaurant where we’d lingered late into the evening just hours before our first kiss. Several friends met us for dinner, and it was a laughter-filled evening of small plates and tall pours. And dessert–oh, the dessert! I couldn’t choose a favorite between the tres leches cake and the butterscotch budino.

Perhaps the free-flowing wine was partially to blame, but by the end of dinner, I was standing in the ladies’ room, cursing myself in the mirror as I fought back tears. It wasn’t just that I was, you know, getting older, though Lord knows, that was part of it. I was so tired of feeling emotionally vulnerable. I’d been through so much in the last two years—when did I get to relax and enjoy love?

I unloaded on Josh when we got home, and he surprised me. He went berserk, and I have to confess—I enjoyed it in a perverse sort of way. He could be so emotionally reserved that I often wondered what the hell was going on up there. Now I knew, and that was so much better than acting like everything was just fine. I have little regard for fine. Real life is a hot, stinking mess sometimes.

He insisted that all of my questions about marriage and babies were ruining the romance, ruining any element of surprise that he might be planning. But I didn’t care about surprises—I just wanted him to look me in the eyes and tell me, in-person, out loud, that he wanted me. I didn’t need an elaborate proposal or a fancy ring. The idea of marriage had lost its lustre for me somewhere back in Illinois. I wanted more than an idea. I wanted the action of marriage. The real-life highs and lows, and all the banal stuff in between. With him.

We kissed and made up, and I came to terms with the fact that he was going to do this his way. No emotional appeals on my part would make a difference. So I shut up and enjoyed the rest of the weekend. On Saturday, we went to the Twins-Red Sox game with my brothers and their significant others. It was all fun and games until the 2nd or 3rd inning when I dunked my shiny new camera, full immersion, into my beer. I’d only consumed about two ounces of beer, so I couldn’t blame intoxication. The camera was trashed, and there was nothing I could do but finish the beer and shake it off.

On Sunday morning—Mother’s Day—I hosted my whole family for a rather elaborate brunch. It was such a sweet day. I mean, aside from the mimosas, french toast, and fresh fruit, it was genuinely sweet. “Like a Normal Rockwell picture,” as my mom used to say. My younger brothers were all highly participatory in the family quality time. That hadn’t always been the case. But on this fine spring morning, the whole lot of us walked down to the park after brunch to let toddling Ethan play.

As I watched my brothers egging on my mom to try the kiddie zip line, I knew exactly what I’d been waiting for, fighting for. Back when I’d first realized that my marriage was going to fail, I think what crushed me the most was the loss of the would-be family that I’d constructed in my head. I mistakenly thought that by saying “I do,” all of that would fall into place. Sometimes, life is exactly not what you expect. Case in point: a granny—my mother—flying by on a zip line, hollering like a schoolgirl.

Next, I went off the pill. No, we weren’t trying to get pregnant (yet), but I wanted to see if anything would happen. Anything being something resembling a cycle. I backed off of my running and tried to gain a few pounds (I know, I know—what an annoying problem). After my therapist gave me an article about diet and fertility, I started swigging 2% milk and eating lots of ice cream. Maybe Josh and I weren’t quite ready, but I figured I could at least get in shape for it. So I did, with equal zeal to training for any marathon.

On the surface, life was really good. In addition to all of the newness—house, puppy, job—I was teaching a university seminar, volunteering, practicing yoga, and taking the dogs to training classes with Josh. I was looking for meaningful ways to channel my energy because deep down, I felt so stuck. I was no longer a carefree twentysomething, but I was far from where I’d hoped to be in my thirties.

I should have relished the quiet goodness of our new life together, but what can I say? I’m my own brand of crazy, and I find it oh-so-difficult to shut up and relax. If I couldn’t have what I wanted, I figured I might as well live it up. Every time another friend announced her pregnancy, I wanted to go somewhere exotic or do something impractical. Or at least buy some hot jeans to show off my pre-mommyhood butt. Because why the hell not? So I suggested to Josh that we take a vacation, just the two of us, and the most interesting thing happened.

The man who’d been quite wary of settling down in the suburbs became the voice of reason. He thought we should spend our money on responsible things like shrubbery or a patio. Shubbery? Really? It was downright refreshing, and Lord knows I wasn’t afraid to grow up. So I just kept plugging away, trying to relish the little things—walking the dogs in the snow, cuddling up with Josh on a cold winter’s night, singing hymns in church. And the ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream.

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.”

Josh spent a good deal of time out in the garage, making his own ruckus with various saws. He insisted on putting a television and an old loveseat out there, basically so he could drink beer in style while taking breaks from his woodworking projects. “Who needs to hang out in the garage when we have two TVs in the house?” I asked. Clearly, that was a stupid question. You’d think that having three brothers would have prepared me to understand men.

Speaking of my brothers, Andy and Hilary recruited a huge group of family and friends to participate in the Brain Injury Association’s Walk for Thought in October. Their son, Ethan, had recovered fully from the Shaken Baby Syndrome injury he’d suffered in the spring. Team Ethan raised more funds than any other team, and we had a great time walking around St. Paul’s Como Park on a crisp Saturday morning. It was one of many days that reinforced my decision to move home to Minnesota.

Yes, moving home had been a good move on many fronts. In November, Josh and I celebrated the first anniversary of our final “pseudo date,” the turning point in our relationship. One year in, our biggest problem was my own discomfort with the fact that we didn’t have quite the same—how shall I put this—heat that we’d had before moving in together. It’s not that I minded the rhythm we’d settled into. I was actually fine with it, and Josh assured me that it was OK—natural, even. I tried to take his word for it, because what did I know about normal?

As Josh and I became increasingly comfortable sharing our lives, I realized something that came as a bit of a surprise to me—I did want to make it more official than a mortgage. Right after my divorce, I’d wondered if marriage would ever feel necessary to me again. After all, what did it really mean? But the more I thought about it, the more I was sure that yes, I still believed in marriage, and I wanted that for us.

One Saturday night around Thanksgiving, I couldn’t help but blurt it out. Josh was cooking up a two-hour culinary masterpiece, and I was drinking a glass of wine and pretending to be willing to help. We were flirting and kissing between veggie chopping and sautéing, and I just had to say something, right then and there. “You know,” I teased, “I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to get married again, but you’re starting to make me sure, especially if you keep cooking like this.”

I told him that I didn’t want to get married right away, but that I would want to eventually. Josh kind of laughed it off like I wasn’t really serious, and—Lord, help me—I  had no idea what to make of it. I let it drop, and we went on to have a wonderful late-night dinner, but the conversation left me feeling insecure. Maybe it had been a mistake to move in together—you know, that whole why-buy-the-cow thing. A dreadful analogy that clashes with my feminist sensibilities, but still. The last thing I needed was to get into a situation where I wanted more than he did, but maybe I already had.

In our first few weeks as homeowners, we were absolute machines. Josh started to build a beautiful cedar fence for Tucker, and I went to town on the interior. Unpacking boxes, hunting for the perfect sofa, and sewing funky throw pillows became my new obsessions. Multiple trips to Home Depot, Target, and IKEA confirmed our suspicions that our 1950s rambler might have strong money-pit potential. We gave up eating out entirely. We were much more interested in spending our dough on curtain rods, power tools, and buckets of expensive low-VOC paint with clever names like “Wet Concrete.”

We were the picture of blissful domesticity until the untimely death of our washing machine. But, what was another six or seven hundred bucks that we didn’t have, right? “Forget the bar, baby—let’s go to Sears!” And the funny thing was, it felt good. The appliance dude botched my credit application and issued my card under my former married name—egads—but nothing could stand in the way of my happiness. I thought that our new front-loading, high-efficiency wonder was pure utilitarian sexiness, and it was then that I realized that I was officially old.

Never fear, dear readers—we were still having fun. The house had a full second kitchen, and my home-brewing darling was busy setting up his “Brouwerij Basement,” which translates to something along the lines of basement in which one boils giant kettles of liquid boyhood (with Belgian flair, naturally). Josh had sole jurisdiction over the basement kitchen, and I quickly decided that I’d take no responsibility for anything that went on down there.

Did I ever envision that life in my thirties would include having a kegerator in my family room? No. No, I did not. Nor did I expect to be divorced and shacked up with a good buddy from college, but that’s what makes life so interesting. In a book or a movie, a nicely timed twist of plot can be a real thrill, but in real life, it’s nothing short of breathtaking. As I stuffed a load of commingled boxer shorts and flowered undies into the new washer, I smiled. “Truly,” I thought, “God must get a real kick out of watching people rise up from rock bottom to plain old peace.”

*****

Blog Housekeeping

I am thrilled to be the July 14th featured blogger on SITS! The Secret is in the Sauce is a fabulous community of women bloggers who support each other by leaving comments.

My blogoir (blog meets memoir) format is a little unique. The events of this post took place in August and September of 2007.

If you’re visiting for the first time, please consider starting my blogoir at the beginning, “How I Left My Husband on My Lunch Break,” or checking out my Fast Track page to get up to speed on the story. You can also find me on Facebook, where you can see photos that relate to my story, and on twitter. Thanks for visiting!

While I was cautiously optimistic that the end was in sight, I didn’t feel like I could take a full breath until I was sitting in my living room with a glass of wine, a good book, and my honey at my side. On some level, I was worried that it was all too good to be true—the house, the man, the stability. It was all so civilized—a far cry from the day I sped away from my ex-husband with little more than my dog and my purse.

I could see what I wanted on the horizon: a family, which would start with me, Josh, and Tucker, and would hopefully grow to include children in the not-so-distant future. But it was bigger than that, too. I hoped that our little clan would be closely tied to our own roots, and I was excited that Josh and I had started to get to know each others’ families better.

Josh and I were both the oldest of four. Between the two of us, we had six younger siblings, ranging in age from 21 to 29. Josh had two sisters—Jessie and Rachel—and a brother named Andy who was still in college. Jessie had a three-year-old son named Aidan, and Rachel had recently married Brian, a great guy who she’d met while living out west. What made the whole situation downright idyllic was the fact that our parents were all still married to each other. Jeez. And, every one of these people lived within a 45-minute drive of our new house. I could already envision the BBQs and birthday parties.

Josh had met my family during our first year in college, when I’d often invited friends home for Sunday dinner. He’d also spent a fair amount of time at my parents’ house during my recently-divorced-and-living-in-the-basement phase. Still, I was happy that he was able to come along on my family’s summer vacation right before we moved in together. We rented a big lake home in northern Minnesota—a house that would go down in family lore as “Weird Don’s” because the owner was a cranky old dude named Don.

If it was hard for my family to see me so quickly attached to another man after my divorce, they didn’t let on. All three of my brothers and my sister-in-law had stood up in my wedding, so I wondered if they’d felt a certain investment in my marriage, but it felt like they were solidly on my team. I think the general consensus was that my marriage had been a mistake. Josh was welcomed with open arms, and at Weird Don’s, he was even foolish enough to stay out around the campfire with my brothers after I went to bed. This is a sure recipe for a four-Advil hangover.

I didn’t have a chance to vacation with Josh’s family that summer, but I did attend the employee appreciation picnic for the family business. I hadn’t been around his family much yet, so it was a good opportunity to talk to his parents and siblings over BBQ and cold brews. Josh’s dad, Larry, had started his own company several years before, and Rachel and Jessie both worked for him. Josh’s mom, Rose, did a lot to help make the company a great place to work—including providing home-baked goodies every week.

One of the many wonderful things about getting to know Rose was that she asked a lot of questions. She had a good deal of practice, as several of her children—including my boyfriend—were on the quiet side. At the picnic, Rose and Alex, Andy’s girlfriend from college, asked me about my divorce. What a relief! I’d been pretty sure that Josh had mentioned it to his mom, but I’d been wondering whether the rest of the family knew that I’d been married before. I don’t know why, but it really mattered to me. Something about authenticity.

It seemed like Josh and I would fit in nicely with each others’ families, but I knew it would take time to feel entirely comfortable. I couldn’t help but wonder, “At what point are you really part of your significant other’s family?” Did it take a ring? Or was cohabitation sufficient? Having already gained and lost in-laws, I really hoped that this would turn out differently. Still, there was always a risk. But since I was willing to put my heart on the line again for Josh, I figured that I could sure as hell go ahead and love his family.

So, one night as we were curled up in bed, I broached the subject again. I shared my fears, my instincts, and what I wanted out of life. I explained how women’s fertility starts to decline at a ridiculously young age. Sure—many women successfully get pregnant in their late 30s and beyond, but it can become increasingly difficult, and given my own health history, I didn’t want to take any chances. And on a personal level, I’d always wanted to be a young mom. There’s nothing wrong with having kids later in life—or not having them at all, for that matter—but that’s not what I wanted.

I apologized for putting this on him so soon, but I had to get it out in the open before moving in together. Josh is a very even-keeled, practical person, so he expressed concern about wanting to be in a better place financially. But. Deep breath. He wasn’t opposed to trying to get pregnant a little sooner if it was that important to me. We didn’t talk specifically about timing, but we agreed to toss out the idea that we had to wait three to five years. Neither of us felt particularly attached to social convention.

So that was a huge relief. Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind—I just wanted to build a life with Josh and keep working on becoming the best version of me that I could be. Once we were on the same page, we revved up our house-hunting engines. By the end of July, we had an offer accepted on a cute little starter home just a few minutes from downtown Minneapolis.

We didn’t know how it had happened, but we were suddenly bound for the ‘burbs. And we were excited about it. Tucker would have his own yard, and Josh and I would start our life together, twelve years after we first became friends as first-year college students in Burton Hall.

In therapy, I got to babble on about all the junk that had been weighing me down—guilt about my divorce, frustration about my career, and anxiety about my biological clock. More and more, I realized how much I’d been worrying about my ability to have kids. There were many things in life that I couldn’t control, but I realized that I could dig a little deeper into my fertility issues. I didn’t want to wait until I was ready to have kids to find out what challenges I might face.

So, proactive one that I am, I went to see a specialist at the university. She checked my hormone levels and ordered an ovarian ultrasound to follow up on the polycystic ovary syndrome diagnosis I’d been given back in Illinois. Everything came back normal, which was a relief, but I still didn’t know why I couldn’t have a cycle on my own. Since my divorce, I’d gone back on the pill anyway, but still.

All of this fertility business got me thinking—it might be a good idea to see exactly where my boyfriend stood on the whole baby-making issue before we bought a house together. You know, since I was already envisioning us with a passel of tots—beanpoles, no doubt. Little scientists or writers, basketball players or runners, or maybe kids who would blaze their own trails and teach us new things.

The opportunity to talk arose one sticky July evening as Josh and I walked Tucker on a loop through my neighborhood, mostly as a reprieve from my stuffy apartment. What began as a casual stroll turned into a rather epic conversation.

“Honey?” I started. “I need to ask you something before we buy a place together.” Does anything strike fear in a man’s heart more than a Big Talk? But I forged ahead. “You want to have kids, right?” I knew he wanted to have kids—I’d seen his list of baby names, for God’s sake. He nodded. “MmmHmm.”

That’s how the conversation started, but if he read between the lines—and I’m sure that he did—it went a little deeper. I wasn’t just asking, after all, if he wanted to have kids in general. I was asking if he wanted to have them with me, the woman with whom he hoped to own a house soon.

I proceeded with caution, “Well, when, exactly, do you see that happening?” He had to think about that for a while, but eventually, he said, “I don’t know—maybe three to five years?” Three to five years. A perfectly reasonable timeframe for a thirty-year-old guy who’d been dating someone for eight months. So why did I feel so damn disappointed?