I was 34 and the mother of two darling daughters, ages 4 and 7. Between home, church, family, and work responsibilities, I was a busy, busy gal. Still, I felt that something was missing, and we began talking about having another child.

 

In his gentle way, my father-in-law kept hinting that we needed a boy to complete our family. My mother-in-law looked at me, the girl in a whirl, and wondered aloud whether I could handle the additional responsibility. A male friend at work intimated that I was too old to have a another baby; another colleague, a female, took me aside one day and told me that I still a young woman with no idea how much richness lay in store for me. “Don’t rule out having another baby,” she implored.

 

One day it hit me that we didn’t need to consult anyone about this important decision. It was our business, our family, our life, our choice. This story has a happy ending, a gloriously happy one. On Saturday November 19, 1983, Paul Benjamin weighed in at eight pounds and seven ounces, and our family was finally complete. One look at his perfect little bald head and his baby blue eyes, and I was in love with the new man in my life. Still am.

 

25 years later, Paul’s a married man, a returned missionary (Mexico) a college grad (cum laude, no less), a graduate student, and the best looking 25 year old around. My long ago colleague was right; I had no idea how much richness this child would bring into my life.

 

 

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