A year earlier, I had tumbled into a mid-life crisis. I had one child who was nearly three, and my husband and I were planning for a second. This had always been our intention, and I approached this second foray without much anxiety. But when my younger sister called to tell me she and her boyfriend were going to London, something inside my head was knocked loose. “Damn,” I thought. “I’m going to be a MOMMY.”

Yes, I know what you’re thinking: You’ve been a mommy for three years. Get over it.

But it wasn’t the prospect of becoming a parent that freaked me out. I loved my little boy and wanted to add another goofball to the family. What threw me into a tizzy was the prospect of being a mommy and all the cultural baggage that came along with it. With one child, you could be that interesting woman with the cute kid who still retained a modicum of cool. But the second child would define you. This is faulty logic, I know, but I believed it nonetheless: A mommy is invisible. A mommy has bad jeans and a minivan. Twenty-five-year-old boys would never check me out. I would never take off to London on a whim.

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Attempts to fix my cycle didn’t work. Over time, my bleeding worsened. That’s when my fertility specialist recommended in vitro fertilization. IVF, he said, would allow him to “toy around” with my hormones. As he explained how many types of drugs he planned to inject in my body, I nodded politely while screaming no way inside my head. I was skeptical of high-tech baby-making measures. All that medication didn’t appeal, for one thing. Neither did the odds: I’d seen friends go through multiple failed rounds of IVF (chances are about one in three). From what I could tell, the stress of IVF wreaked havoc on relationships. Couples pillaged their savings and retirement accounts (the procedure is $15,000 a pop). I figured if traditional medicine wasn’t for me, perhaps I could cure my infertility a more traditional way, by changing what I ate and how I lived.

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Look, I'm human, and as such, I've always found babies cute -- but, suddenly, right around my 28th birthday earlier this year, crossing paths with them caused me to grab the arm of my acquaintance as though I'd seen a celebrity. Reactions formerly reserved for baby animals began to apply to human infants. Noticing this shift, a friend who hadn't seen me for a while remarked, "Since when are you baby crazy?" The real question is: Since when did I become such a cliché?

It's not that I'm ready to reproduce -- good God, no -- but I do want to have a baby eventually, though the possibility seems many years off. Will I be ready -- emotionally, professionally, financially, romantically -- before my fertility nose-dives? This longing feels physically acute -- a twitching in my ovaries, an itching in my arms to cradle. In the past, I'd always written off the cliché of the woman in her late 20s or early 30s with a "ticking biological clock" as a sexist trope. Now I find myself reconsidering and wondering how real it is, and why it is.

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And they do: People ask all kinds of probing questions -- from the sometimes innocent, “Do twins run in your family?" to the blatant, “Was it natural?”

And it wasn’t. Our twins were the result of ovulation stimulation drugs and an IUI (intrauterine insemination).

But the question I started asking myself was: Why should I care if people suspected or knew I needed “help” getting pregnant? Especially in an age in which so many women seek medical intervention when they have trouble conceiving. And especially at a time when twins are becoming the new normal: Recently, the CDC reported that 1 in every 30 babies born in the United States today is a twin.

Part of my self-consciousness came from the fact that infertility treatments are an intimate affair. Your private parts are prodded, your internal organs scrutinized, and your bodily fluids drawn. Nobody looks at one little baby and thinks, “Gee, wonder how that thing got made?” whereas multiples beg the question: How exactly did that happen? I wasn’t crazy about my reproductive process being speculated upon or, more to the point, given any thought at all.

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I used to be a very ambitious person. As a child, I dreamed of being famous (an actress) and felt sure that I was destined for a golden life of magnificent fortune. I pursued this goal  with some tenacity (and varying degrees of success) through my 20s and early 30s. Now I find myself (at 35) questioning the nature and value of the "entertainment industry" and struggling to find the motivation or inspiration to continue in this field.

I lead a lucky life in many ways. I have fallen into the voice-over industry, which is highly lucrative and affords me the great luxury of time. I have a wonderful (new) marriage and our first baby is on the way. I live in Sydney, Australia, to many considered the land of milk and honey. The sun shines, a sparkling ocean is on my doorstep and my days are filled with many moments of ease and relaxation.

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"Sex Cells," a new book by Rene Almeling, an assistant professor of sociology at Yale University, pulls back the curtain on the egg and sperm market. She looks at the ways our cultural assumptions about gender roles influence not only the egg and sperm donation industry but also the people within it. As it turns out, egg and sperm donors have remarkably different experiences of the process. "Sex Cells" explains how this unique industry shapes the way we think about gender and parenthood.

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"Wait," she says. "Maybe you should read the directions again."

I float back into the bathroom, smiling like a drunk puppy. "Two lines -- pregnant," I read.

We are ready. I am 30, she is 31. This condo we bought last year is a two-bedroom, McCarren Park is down the block, and the schools in Greenpoint are good. We just spent a decade graduating and clerking and teaching and secretarying and marrying and back-to-schooling and climbing and moving and traveling and fighting and growing and still liking our lives (mostly), and this is the right time for a family.

But still: Holy crap.

This could take a year of trying, we heard. You can only get pregnant a few days a month anyway, we heard. But there they are, two pink lines.

The whole testing idea is a whim; there is no waiting through days of lateness, no tense and excited buildup. It's a rare night off for me. She arrives home at 7 and mentions she's one day late. I say, "Let's get a test, then."

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1. Justin Bieber and Tiffani Thiessen have a creepy crush on each other: As evidenced by the shirts the two wore to Canada's MuchMusic Video Awards, bearing each other's faces. Bieber was born one year after "Saved by the Bell" went off the air.

2. James Blunt's blunder: Put a photo of himself on Facebook in front of a historical building near Auschwitz, then claimed it was his "hotel in Poland."

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A little private time is common in consultations with teens; it gives them the opportunity to be honest about various behaviors, including sexual activity, that they wouldn't discuss in front of their parents. CDC statistics show a third of girls in the U.S. are sexually active by age 15, so these talks can make the difference between a teenage girl staying healthy by practicing safe sex, and becoming a star on the next season of "16 and Pregnant."

The MTV show has generated a lot of controversy because of the way the mothers and mothers-to-be on the program behaved after they'd decided to have a child. But, for a pediatrician like me, the show raises a different question: Did these young women have the chance to talk privately with their doctors before MTV started shooting their second trimester?

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It's one of the two questions I hear most often when I tell people my partner and I are expecting our second baby. The other common question -- "Do you know the gender?" -- makes more sense. People like to attach a concrete image to the fuzzy notion of a fetus. But, was I trying? That's an oddly intimate inquiry. And how is your sex life, stranger? 

Yet I've heard it from all corners, with this pregnancy and the last: co-workers. Bosses. Neighbors. My daycare provider. The guy at the deli where we buy our bagels. (OK, the deli guy didn't ask, but I could see it in his eyes.)

Do these people really harbor a burning desire to know whether we are careful planners or total screw-ups? Because that's what it boils down to. You were either trying -- under the sheets or, perhaps, the steely gaze of fertility specialists -- or you weren't, and are shocked, delighted, confused or feeling litigious toward your birth control manufacturer.

The funny thing is, we've been on both sides of the coital coin. My first pregnancy, although utterly welcome, was not entirely intentional. More recently, we were pretty careful about not being careful. So I should have two simple answers: last time no, this time yes.

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1. At least one little girl is as over this royal wedding B.S. as we are: Grace Van Cutsem, or "the frowning flower girl," who we have on good authority is a terror, but fits right at home in memeville.

2. Finding out that Steve Carell could have played Harvey Milk in "Milk": Wow, America really dodged a bullet on that one. Or alternatively, missed a way better movie.

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I am all for veganism, vegetarianism, whatever, but I am also a big fan of "live and let live" mentality. I also don't like to be given health advice by someone who lost so much weight on her last film that people were legitimately scared for her well-being. Let's just say, I would not buy that person's brand of vegan shoes, because there are a lot of shoes out there that are technically "vegan" (i.e., not leather) and do not cost $355.

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Those of us who have been through a delivery, either as a parent or as a doctor, know scenes like these (or these) are gross caricatures. The goal of childbirth isn't to scream at the top of your lungs. Rather, it's to focus that energy down on the pelvis to push the baby out, instead of wasting it contorting your body and castigating your partner.

Despite this, a quick scan of maternal message boards shows there is no shortage of women with questions about whether all that screaming, cursing and writhing is normal.

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The most-touted fact from the report is that -- relax, parents -- more teenagers are waiting to have sex: The number of sexually active youngsters dropped from 54 percent in 1991 to 46 percent in 2009. At the same time, many media outlets are highlighting the fact that 12 percent of sexually active teens are getting busy without any form of birth control. Thanks to the juxtaposition of these two leading sound bites, you might get the impression that the decline has more to do with abstinence. But what's easily overlooked is that the number of teens having sex without a form of birth control has actually dropped from 16 percent. At the same time, the percentage of youngsters using backup contraception has almost doubled. In other words: Contraceptive use is up among teens, and more are doubling up methods just to be extra safe. This, I'm sure I don't have to tell you, is great news, and a boon for proponents of comprehensive sex education (which, by the way, also includes messages about the benefits of waiting to have sex).

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Of course I don't. But for some reason, these clothes are as precious to me as my baby's first six pairs of shoes. (Which I also still have.)

I know we're supposed to hastily shed our maternity clothes in shame because -- the horror -- we used to be fat. But I'll confess: I loved my pregnant body. I probably loved it more than I loved my 20-something single girl body, or even my teenage body. Shopping at Motherhood Maternity was more exciting than shopping at Nordstrom in those days. Seriously.

For one thing, pregnancy is the only time in a woman's life when a big belly is considered an asset. I'd spent my entire clothes-shopping career trying to minimize that belly. But in pregnancy it was tight, round, ripe and gorgeous -- bare in prenatal yoga class, peeking from tank tops on the beach. Even under a plain old maternity T from Target, it was a good look for me.

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On Tuesday, Kate Hudson, who shimmied into a skintight cutout gown two weeks ago for the Grammys, was snapped unself-consciously letting it all hang out while strolling in Los Angeles with boyfriend Matthew Bellamy. Eight years ago, when Hudson was pregnant with her first child, her belly-flaunting ensembles were something of a rarity. Now in Hollywood, they're practically a requirement.

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A pharmacist at a Safeway supermarket in Fort Lupton gave Mareena Silva the drug methotrexate last week. The drug, intended for another woman, is used in chemotherapy and to terminate early-stage pregnancies.

Silva, who is six weeks pregnant, told KMGH-TV in Denver that she took a pill and checked the bottle after becoming sick. She was rushed to the hospital.

Doctors say Silva could miscarry or have a baby with birth defects.

"For all this to happen now, it's really overwhelming to know that I have to come home and sit and wait," Silva said in an interview with the station.

Safeway issued a statement that said policies and procedures meant to prevent medication errors were not adhered to, and that the company is redoubling efforts to ensure they are followed. Those procedures include asking twice for the patient's full name and date of birth before handing out medication.

"We have extended our sincere apologies to Ms. Silva and offered to pay any medical expenses incurred as a result of the prescription error," Safeway's statement said. "We understand the anxiety this has caused and the difficulty of Ms. Silva's situation."

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"Will it be a boy or a girl, Mommy?" my 6-year-old asked as I sent her and her sisters off to school.

"You'll know when you get home from school today!" I said.

My husband and I joked easily in the waiting room of the high-risk maternity center (where I had automatically been placed because of my age), though couples around us sat in grim silence. We became slightly less relaxed as the minutes crept by. I had screwed up my appointment time (my special talent), and my husband became annoyed by the waiting. I had anticipated this moment with the intensity of a child counting down the days till Christmas, but it was not quite turning out as expected. By the time we were finally ushered into the ultrasound room my husband and I were engaged in a sotto voce round of bickering -- can't believe you messed up the time/stop ruining this for me -- only to be struck silent by the magical appearance of our baby on the screen.

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"Now that you're pregnant -- " she began.

There was a long, portentous pause. I wondered if Mom was about to reveal a family secret, something that could only be passed along to pregnant daughters. Then again, my mother is capable of making a dramatic production of advising me to eat more dark, leafy greens.

"Yes?" I asked, with some trepidation.

"Oh, nothing serious. I mailed off the baby clothes today."

I relaxed, relieved that there would be no drama. For over 30 years my mother had carefully saved a box of her children's baby clothes, many of them hand-knit by my grandmother. I smiled, imagining those tiny hats and sweaters on my own child. Then Mom dropped her bombshell.

"Oh, and I'm sending the maternity clothes, too," she added, casually.

"What maternity clothes?"

"Well, mine, of course. The ones I wore when I was pregnant with you!"

The enthusiasm in her voice made me blanch. "You saved your maternity clothes?"

Had I been one of those hip mamas so ubiquitous in my Portland neighborhood, sassy in their retro outfits, I might have been excited by this news. But I've always been a jeans and sweater gal. Besides, I was barely ready to contemplate maternity clothes at all -- let alone don the pregnancy garb of 1965.

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I didn't say that because I was grossed out. Even as a child, I knew conventional parenthood wasn't meant to be part of my adult life. The family friend responded the same way countless people would for the next 20 years: She told me I'd change my mind when I met the right man.

In the two decades since then, the only thing that's changed is that conversations about my fertility have become even more polarized and strained. As I entered my mid- to late-20s, folks started asking when I'll start a family (as if I don't already have one). Once, a stranger at a party poked my belly and asked when I might start showing. Apparently it doesn't occur to people that asking about my fertility might be a bit invasive, akin to asking a stranger about her weight or, say, his prostate. Apparently it doesn't occur to them that I will not offer one of two palatable answers: I'll have kids soon, or I'll get around to it eventually.

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