When my husband and I married, we each came packaged with a daughter. Our little blended family was wonderful, and neither of us was convinced that we needed to go the whole "yours, mine and ours" nine yards. But we weren't completely ready to rule out the possibility of another baby, either. I warned my husband that my biological clock was ticking, and if we were going to have a baby, it was going to be within two years.

If I told him once, I told him a thousand times, "I will not be pregnant and 40."

Well, one of these days I'm going to learn to say things like "I will not win the lottery" or "I will not have the thighs of a supermodel." Because not only was I unexpectedly pregnant three years later at 40, I wasn't due until after my 41st birthday.

We both decided that simply being pregnant was surprise enough, so we chose to learn the sex of the baby as soon as possible. Neither of us really doubted that it would be a girl; I already had a girl, he already had a girl, my sister had two girls and my brother had a girl. We were already discussing girls names and talking about getting the little dresses and pink sleepers down from the attic. So when the ultrasound technician pointed to the screen and said, "Here's a foot; there's a hand; here's his penis; this is the nose..." my husband and I were stunned.