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Ten years ago tonight, after a nearly year-long struggle to become so, I found out I was with child.

My car broke down as I was on the way home from work that day.  Four kind strangers helped get me going again, and with each bit of assistance they gave I felt a rush of unexpected gratitude radiating out to the entire universe.  At that point in my life I was not given to free-floating thanksgiving.  That, coupled with the evidence of an hours-late period, gave me hope that some miraculous change was afoot in my hormones.

I stopped at a drugstore and bought a pair of kits, each of which contained two pregnancy tests.  I peed on one that night before showering, despite the box’s advice that morning was the best time to see early results.

And I got no results.  I threw the stick in the trash and slammed the shower door behind me, but in less than a minute I felt compelled to give it one more glance.  There was a line.  In fact, there were two lines.  Naked and dripping all over the floor, I reread the directions.  Two lines meant pregnant.

Shower over, I thrust the stick into my husband’s face.  We’d been using an ovulation predictor that bore some resemblance to a pregnancy test; apparently he thought I was showing him my ovulation status.  “Is it time to have sex again?” he asked, horrified.  “Didn’t we just do it two weeks ago?”

I assumed then that he was simply burned out from too much “trying to conceive.”  I realize now that warning bells should have been clanging in my head.

That weekend, after having peed on enough sticks to convince even my jaded self that I was indeed knocked up, I dug two new flower beds and planted them with bulbs.  A decade later they still mostly bloom, and looking at them I take note of each year shoving me further away from my childless state of innocent freedom.

Now it’s been a decade that I’ve spent raising children.  A decade of keeping my ears tuned for their voices, even when they’re not in the room.  Even when they’re under someone else’s care.  Even when they’re out of the house.

After ten years, I’m less than half through the process of raising my first child and (perhaps) one-seventh of the way with my last.  One-half!  One-seventh!  Some days these calculations hurt my heart because I know how quickly the rest of the time will pass.  Other days the never-ending hours ’til bedtime threaten to crush my very soul.  One way or another, I imagine that somehow we’ll make it through the next decade.

How much sanity I’ll have at the end of that time?  That’s another question altogether.

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My good pal Tony Comstock and his lovely wife Peggy have returned from their summer adventures ready to work (and blog) again.  Go check out their blog, wherein they discuss The Art & Business of Making Erotic Films.

At the moment, Tony is seeking female models for an upcoming photo shoot.  Go check out his qualifications here, and send him an email if you’d like to be involved.  I’m looking at summa my readers, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

As an extra incentive, Tony will mail off a copy of one of his films (your choice!) to a randomly-selected person who comments on this blog post before Monday, October 13th at 12:01 am Eastern.  He’s feeling a lil lonely now that he’s back to blogging again, so he’d love to hear some friendly voices wishing him well on the upcoming season’s projects.

Go on over now and say howdy!