I lifted my gigantic stomach first before turning over in bed on Christmas Eve 1999. Snow filtered softly down to ensure a white Christmas in Park City, Utah, and I could hardly wait to watch my 3-year-old son, Max, open his presents.

I hoped tomorrow's best gift would be my twins still growing safe inside of me. Several friends had agonized watching their preemie babies struggle in the hospital, and I hoped to avoid such heartache. I felt lucky to have made it to 35 weeks with two babies, and every extra day I remained pregnant was a blessing.

My twin pregnancy came as a huge surprise. My husband, Lars, and I were thrilled with our son, but we wanted to try for a daughter. Lately I'd anticipated special moments: French braiding my daughter's hair, proudly watching ballet recitals, helping select the perfect prom dress – preferably in pink.

Of course, our mostly-male family would welcome another son, but I bought a book on gender selection, and Lars and I tried out the "girl" method. My husband was all smiles as this meant making love daily for almost two weeks.

After the first month of "trying," a home pregnancy test confirmed my pregnancy, and I danced around the house holding Max, making him giggle and Lars grin. I decided to make a doctor's appointment, because we were leaving for a family vacation to Norway soon, and I was morning, noon and night sick. Since I felt as green as a gecko, I wanted the doctor's OK to fly.

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