Meet Sammy B.

You know, he's the reason I started blogging, and I just realized that I haven't introduced you all to Sam. In the immortal words of Stephanie Tanner, "How rude!"

Sam Robert is our much wished-for miracle child. When Jack was about 12 months old, we starting trying to get pregnant again. When we did get pregnant, it didn't stick. After 2 years of trying, we began consulting with a reproductive endocrinologist. I had the dreaded Unexplained Secondary Infertility - there was no reason why I wasn't getting and staying pregnant. We were forced to learn the alphabet of infertility: ART, AI, IUI, and finally settled on IVF. Finally, after 4 long, painful years of infertility, we became, and stayed, pregnant.

In vitro was my first experience with feeling judged for decisions that Matt and I made. It didn't happen often, but I would hear the criticisms of people who told me that infertility was nature's way of controlling the population; that my miscarriages were God's way of telling me that I should be happy with just one child; that I should accept whatever God gave me. Personally, I think Sam's birth was God's way of telling me to be patient, and telling everyone else to mind their own damned business. Well, maybe not so much that last part (that was actually me), but he was definitely on our side for the journey. One day right before I had to decide if we were going to go through with a very expensive IVF treatment, or if we were going to call it a day and throw in the towel, I was driving home from work. I had a long commute, and a lot of times I used that time to talk with God. (He and I chat a lot this way.) On this particular drive, I asked Him, "God, I wish I knew what to do. It's such a big decision. I don't know - should I just stop trying?" Not 60 seconds later, a minivan drove past me on the freeway, and I noticed its vanity plate: KIDSR4U. I shit you not. I still get chills thinking about that.

We had more help from Up There too. My father died when I was 5 months pregnant with Jack, but I firmly believe he's been keeping an eye on his grandsons ever since he passed. Two nights before I got the word from the doctor that I was, in fact, pregnant, my dad and his father - my Papa - came to me in a dream. In it, the three of us sat around my childhood kitchen table, and we talked about this and that. My dad and Papa told me that I was pregnant, that it was a boy, and that they would be honored if I would name the baby after them. (My dad was Robert Jr., and my Papa was Robert Sr.) I woke up, cried softly for a little while, then woke Matt up and told him about the dream (you'll never convince me it was "just" a dream).

This kid was Meant to Be.

But in true Sam fashion, he never made things easy. I had hyperemesis gravidarum before Kate made it cool (actually, there's nothing cool about it). I suffered from preeclampsia during my last trimester and as a result, Sam was delivered by emergency c-section 3 weeks early. His little lungs weren't fully developed, so he spent the first five days of life in the NICU, then was on supplemental oxygen for almost a month. I found out recently that a mother with preeclampsia, early delivery, and needing O2 while an infant have been proven links to ADHD. Check, check, and check. Awesome - something else for me to feel guilty about.

Sam is known as Sammy, Sam Bob (a joke with my family from Oklahoma), Sammy Blue Eyes (because every Italian kid needs a good mob name), and mostly, Sammy B. Sarcasm is his first language (it's in his DNA), and Matt and I still marvel at his extremely advanced grasp of it. I thought my mother-in-law was going to keel over when, at about 2 years old, Sam looked her in the eye and said dryly, "Nana. I's been sartastic."

He is FUN-NY. With a capital FUNNY. Most times, he means to be and he LOVES when people laugh at his jokes. He does NOT love it when people laugh at HIM. He's a sensitive soul and is very easily hurt. It's a strange balance because that kid is also a mean motherfucker who will say the most painful things a child can say, just because he wants to wound you as much as he feels wounded. Those moments break my heart because I know he can't possibly understand that I already DO hurt as much as he does, simply because he's mine.

He is loving. And smart. And naturally athletic. And did I say funny? And, yes, he has ADHD, ODD, and anxiety. Eh, no one's perfect. But he's our Sammy B, and as his very proud, but often exhausted, older brother would say - our family wouldn't be Us without him.

If Sammy were here for this introduction, I'm certain he would very politely say hello (because he's been raised well) and then ask you to pull his finger (because there's only so much I can do).