I'd begun to believe it was never going to happen. We'd been trying for a while, and after many disappointments, it was time to face the possibility that Olivia might well be my only child. I poked around the idea, the way you might probe a jagged tooth, and felt both sadness and disbelief. I'd never imagined having just one child, but with a beautiful baby daughter and a wonderful stepson, maybe it was wrong to wish for more. Maybe my family was complete. Perhaps my nagging sense that there was still someone waiting to join us, someone we were meant to care for and love was something every woman felt when she realized she would never again cradle her own infant in her arms.

It was a Saturday morning, and my husband and I were spending a few quiet minutes alone - okay, we were hiding in the bedroom and whispering. Our time was limited. Soon, Babyzilla would awaken, and with a roar and a stomp of her pudgy feet, she'd resume her reign of terror over our household and all hope of conversation would be lost. In the charming fashion of a man who's lived with the same woman long enough to know that avoiding trouble is best way of dealing with it, Mark was diplomatically trying to calculate when my next bout of PMS would be blowing through. "It's about right now, isn't it?" he asked helpfully. Checking myself for insane or homicidal thoughts I answered, "No. Can't be." Then, using the ultimate PMS litmus test, I quickly reviewed my husband's behavior over the last twenty-four hours, looking for anything really aggravating or annoying. Nothing. "You're off the hook." I said. "No PMS. It's looking like a good weekend for you." He thought about that, then blurted, "Take a test!"

I didn't want to take a pregnancy test. I'd already failed enough of them to qualify for summer school. Every time I unwrapped one I couldn't suppress the hope that fluttered in my chest like a nervous bird, hope that would be dashed when the stick failed to turn pink. Why go through that again when I knew, just knew, what the answer would be? So what if my period was late? Between being on the Pill since the Mesozoic era, and nursing Olivia for over a year, I had no business expecting my confused reproductive system to follow a calendar when I couldn't even remember what day of the week it was. But Mark was insistent. "You're pregnant, I can feel it. I know I always say that, but this time it's different. Take the test."

I have yet to meet a woman who didn't wonder if she would be able to love a second child in the same way that she loved her first. A first baby is a universe encompassing all things that a baby can ever mean or be. Every step with a first child is one taken into unknown territory, and every discovery shines with newness and fresh awe. Parents and baby learn together what it is to become a family, and all subsequent children benefit from the mistakes made and lessons learned at the expense of the first. In that regard, second children have it a little easier, which may be nature's consolation for their not being first. There's something to be said, after all, for having a mommy who has finally figured out the many snaps and buttons on a pair of infant pajamas.

Maybe it's only human to doubt the capacity of our hearts to love and make room for another child. That we can and do is a testament to our boundless optimism, our belief that life is fundamentally good and that hope is a gift we can bestow in the form of our children. With our world on the brink of war, our astronauts plummeting from the skies, and even our schools unsafe and uncertain, it seems less than wise, selfish almost, to call a new life into the world. And yet, is there any more defiant gesture of faith in the future?

I ripped the cellophane open with my teeth, and closing my eyes, performed the mechanics of the test - mechanics I knew by heart. It took only seconds to have an answer. It's amazing how quickly two tiny pink windows on a four- inch long piece of plastic can change your entire life forever. We just hope we're ready, because here we go again...