I longed for a third baby since my second child, Leo, was born at home in 2017. I tried to shake the desire and I tried to talk myself out of it, but it was always there, refusing to stay suppressed, refusing to disappear. First births are often traumatic, and mine was no exception. My first child, Rosa, was born in 2014 and came into this world kicking up a fuss after 36 hours of labor, a failed epidural at the 30-hour mark that resulted in a cerebrospinal fluid leak (aka "wet tap"; summary: worst headache ever), an epidural that worked, and two "blood patches" to stop the fluid leak. (That is four epidurals in total, if you're counting.) She was exactly 40 weeks gestation and weighed a healthy 7 lbs 13 oz. In those days , I was working as a legal aid attorney in D.C. and teaching yoga on the side. I was newly married, living in a rowhouse with my husband, cat, and two roommates, and my bike was my main form of transportation. My last day of work was June 20, a
