And why did you do this again?

That's the question I've gotten asked a lot this pregnancy. Much more than you would think or even more than what would be considered polite to bring up in mixed company. But thankfully my friends and family skirt the line of polite and instead say what they're thinking. And that's why I like them.

Why are you going through this again, this pregnancy, when it was so horrible the first time?

That, my friends, is the $64,000 question. Why would I go through another pregnancy when I knew what I was getting myself into (More or less. People do love to tell me that every one of their pregnancies were SO different. Yeah, mine? Not so much.)? Why did I go ahead and get knocked up again when I was adamant that we were "One and done"?

Why, indeed.

The short answer? My grandmother died.

I know, I know... Totally bizarro reason. But hear me out. There's a process here.

Mr. C and I had been talking about the possibility of having another kid. Time had passed, memory had dulled. We gave ourselves three months of not really trying but not really not trying to get pregnant and then we'd give up and be happy with what we had.

So I decided to throw caution to the wind and I packed my birth control pills in my checked luggage for my trip to Blogher '07, instead of in my carry-on. And wouldn't you know, my bag got lost? OF COURSE it did.

(Students of Freud, feel free to jump in anytime.)

Two days without pills and I just decided to stop taking them. Such a hassle anyway. And Mr. C and I could always use protection if we wanted to.

And then my Gram passed away shortly after I arrived home.

There I was at the funeral and the graveside service that followed, watching siblings console siblings and cousins consoling cousins. And when my sister and I stood arm and arm at the grave where my mother is also buried I knew... I just knew...

I couldn't let Chicky grow up without someone to stand arm and arm with during life's difficult moments.

Of course, we couldn't have known that we would get pregnant so quickly upon not-trying-but-not-really-not-trying. I mean, it took us TWO WHOLE TRIES to get pregnant with Chicky.

Ahem.

To be perfectly clear, I'm not having another child for the first one. Chicky didn't ask for this. She might have one day. She might have begged until she was blue in the face for a brother or sister. But I did not do this just for her.

I did this for me.

My reasons for getting pregnant and going through hyperemesis and all the joys that accompany it again were purely selfish. That's right, I wanted to throw up my guts for months and months. Okay, not really. I wanted the peace of mind that my children would at least have another person in this world to help deal with my old, wrinkly self when the time came. Or deal with Mr. C's wrinkly self.

I didn't want the possibility of nursing homes, hospice care, medical proxy's, or funeral arrangements to fall squarely on just one person. I know me. I'm a worrier. Who needs that kind of stress when you're old or sick?

It wasn't totally doom and gloom that made me want to get pregnant again. I mean, how depressing, right? I wanted to make sure Chicky had someone in her life that she could turn to and bitch about her parents to.

"Mom and Dad are totally nuts! They won't let me stay out all night so I can go to this major kegger at Bobby's house! It's not like I'm going to do anything WRONG. I'm FIFTEEN YEARS OLD. They're being SOOO UNFAIR."

Can't you just imagine that? Chicky dramatically bursting through a closed bedroom door and throwing herself down on her sister's bed? Lamenting her fate of having the world's worst parents ever? I can. And it makes me happy.

It also pleases me that she'll have someone to watch over. Someone to take care of and be somewhat responsible for. I can't wait to watch Chicky and the little one walking hand in hand. Okay, not so much hand in hand but rather I'll drag you by the hand and you will follow me because you're smaller.

So you see, it's all about my happiness, my peace of mind. I got pregnant because I am a selfish woman. Mr. C is still trying to figure it out.

"Don't bitch to me because you feel fat. I still have the box of condoms in my bedside drawer."

Yes siree, it's all about me. And yes, I threw something at him after he said that. I can't chase him down and beat him but my aim is still good.

My selfishness only goes so far, however. After this one we are done. I like the world to revolve around me but multiple pregnancies tend to result in multiple kids, you know?

Now, if the birth and all that yucky stuff had nothing to do with me I would be a sublimely happy.