And within three months, I was pregnant.  All of the medical knowledge in the world didn't seem to work for us.  And we weren't even Catholic.

Ken took it in stride.  "It will be alright," he told me.
"You haven't spent the last thirteen months with two babies in diapers," I replied.  I was devastated.  Totally and completely crushed.

When I was eight and a half months pregnant, we moved again.  The military moves you once to a new station, if you find a better place to live, that move is on you.  Ken and I packed up, loaded  everything on a borrowed pickup and moved closer to base.  We broke couple of things on the road, but nothing duck tape and shoe polish couldn't fix.

I painted the entire house, even the ceilings.  Standing on a ladder.  I got all the boxes unpacked and everything put away, and then went into labor.  A little girl.  Almost nine pounds.  Perfect.  You know how it goes, they arrive and you can't remember what the problem was.  She was like a little toy doll to the other two girls.  We loved her.  She fit right in.  For nine days.  And then she died.