My son Max’s birth was almost four years in the making, three years to conceive him and then another nine months until his timer went off. Those three years were long, grueling, and exhausting. After twelve months of trying to get pregnant, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome and told that I would not be able to conceive children without the help of a fertility specialist. I was devastated. My husband, Brandon, was my rock during this time. He comforted me after our many miscarriages and had faith that we would have a child of our own.

After our fourth miscarriage, we were out of town visiting family and I was put on birth control pills and told that we needed to “take a break” for three months. I did my best to enjoy myself, but the thoughts of babies that we didn’t have were never far from my mind. When we returned home, I had to do a routine blood test and received a frantic message from my fertility doctor’s nurse. I was pregnant again. I was not surprised. I had dreamed several nights in a row of receiving that message on my voice mail. I knew that this baby would be healthy and that I would carry him full term.

My pregnancy was perfect. I had the usual complaints, but loved every second of it. I didn’t, however, appreciate being overdue. As my due date approached, I became more and more anxious that my body wouldn’t do everything it was supposed to do and that I would not go into labor on my own. I was already so used to having to use medicine to make my body work properly that I had absolutely no faith in my self. When I was one week late, I did everything I could to convince my midwife to just induce me. She said that they couldn’t for another week because they had been slammed with births and literally had no room for me.

There were many a tears shed that night and the next day.

On April 4th, the first nice day of the year, I went into labor nine days late. I couldn’t believe it. With every contraction, I was so relieved that this baby was coming and that I went into labor all on my own.
Brandon and I started crying when my midwife said it was time to push. After everything we had been through, we were about to meet our son. He held my leg as I pushed for about forty minutes. When he came out, they saw meconium in my amniotic fluid and rushed him over to a table to suction his mouth and nose out. I had wanted them to place him on my chest, but his health and safety took center stage.

We hugged and kissed and cried as we heard our little boy cry for the first time. Brandon went over to cut the cord as the midwife took care of everything on my business end. The look on my husbands face as Max was placed in his arms is something that I recall every day. It is one of my happiest memories. I have never seen that much love and joy on another persons face.

When it was finally my turn to hold him, I couldn’t hold back my emotions. At that moment, I was grateful for the trials we had to go through to get our son. I wouldn’t be the same person or mother with out them. I know that he came into our lives exactly when he was supposed to.

From Ashley Morrissey


Note from Design Mom: for the duration of my pregnancy, I’ll be posting advice, memories and stories about pregnancy, childbirth, adoption and growing a family on Wednesdays. You can find them all by clicking here. I’d love to hear your story or memory or advice, feel free to submit it to