I have no idea, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know that my parents had sex. Twice. (I have a brother.).
OTOH, this baby was conceived on Thanksgiving. He’s the result of a snowstorm grounding us in Ohio instead of the trip to Virginia we were making. Good thing that storm came along:).
E.
No idea, but it’s intriguing. My father died 8.5 months before I was born. Kind of a sickly guy - did they know he didn’t have long, so did it on purpose? Was it just a fluke? I’ll never know because my mom died when I was young.
I’ve always imagined it went something like,
“Why do you want another kid? We already have one.”
“Oh, come on - one more won’t kill you!”
Ha! I like your attitude. 
I was planned. My oldest two sisters are two years apart. My sister was born seven years later, and I was born seven years after that. The only reason I know I was definitely planned is because once (when I still planned on having kids), I expressed concern to my mom that having been on the pill since I was 14 (for medical reasons), it might screw with my fertility. My mom said not to worry, she was on the pill forever (seven-year periods to be precise) and when she went off, bam, she was pregnant. I think they may have been trying for a boy, but neither of my parents has ever said so.
Heh. I don’t know a whole lot of details (thank Og), but I do know that neither I nor my two siblings were planned. And that each of us represents a failed method of birth control. My parents handled the “surprises” just fine - all of us were and are loved and cherished.
My son was conceived in the back of a Volkswagen van parked on the beach in Southern California. I used to be really ashamed of this, but now - hell, it was 1969 and I was 15 and I can’t change it anyway. My son seems to be proud of his origins in an odd sort of way.
I was definitely conceived on the wrong side of the blanket. My father was a teacher, my mom his student. They’d been dating for four years and he had gotten her a little apartment. Not a big deal, even in India people would have been shocked but would have gotten them married off - except the son of a bitch was already married with kids. Anyway, I was conceived in March of '75 in this dingy little apartment. No one else in my family knew until after I was born, though…she successfully told them she was getting fatter the whole time.
I don’t know since I was adopted too. I’ve been toying with finding my birthmother - I know the name I was given by her when I was born - but I’m not sure…
Anyway, my son was conceived at the Grayslake Outdoor Theater - in 1989. I have not told him this - and I probably won’t.
Gosh, a lot of, uh, non-standard conception stories in this thread.
The only think I know about my conception was that it occured three months before my parents’ marriage. (Which is still going, 32 years later.) For my baby sister, OTOH, we know when it happened – my dad who spent several months in Tennessee for work was back visiting one weekend and we all went to a family friend’s house. She made strawberry daquiris, and the rest is history.
–Cliffy
It was a hotel and we had a room, although it could have just as easily been in the parking lot. We were in serious heat.
A drive-in baby! Awesome! Reminds me of my friend who had a pair of “drive-in pants” They had zippers going down the front of each leg from waist to cuff.
I know nothing about the circumstances of my conception, except that my parents were 2 years into a happy vanilla marriage. Taking timing into account, I can’t rule out an unusually exuberant celebration of Beethoven’s birthday, 1966. (“Freude, schöne Götterfunken,” indeed.)
I was conceived in August of '68, my parents were married in October of '68, and I was born in May of '69.
In my mother’s very own words: “We were young, horny and stupid. It was my birthday, so we got drunk, had a poke, and went to the C.N.E.”
Try not to swoon too much from the romance of it all.
I was born November 13. You can do that math to extrapolate my most probable conception date.
I’ve always thought I was an accident or an afterthought. My sister is 12 years older than I am, my brother 11. My parents were 38 when I was born.
I’ve made jokes (not to them) that my birth certificate is actually a written apology from the Trojan company. 
My parents had been married two years before I, their first, came along. I was planned. They had sex roughly nine months before June 7, that’s all I know or care to know about that.
My younger brother was also planned, and came along five years after me.
I have no children yet, but we are planning their conception soon…
My parents, according to stories my mom told me, were apparently extraordinarily fertile. As most of both sides of the family tend to be. If her words are to be believed (and no one better call my Mommy a liar) she simply stopped using her diapragm and bingo, bun in the oven. Twice. She said she intentionally timed it so that we would be exactly four years apart and born in the spring. Also, they waited until WWII was about over before my conception. I think they were celebrating the dropping of the A-bomb on Hiroshima.
As I said, there seem to be very large families in our family tree, and not a few supposedly 8- or 7-month babies weighing 7, 8 or more pounds. I, on the other hand, after having spent a small fortune on birth control until I was ready, had to spend a larger fortune on fertility treatments. Twice.
So my sister, my daughters and I all know we exist on purpose.
I have no idea what the circumstances were around my conception, but I’ve often wondered.
That’s why we included a videotape of my daughter’s conception in her 18th birthday time capsule.
I know nothing about mine, but I was in the bedroom across the hall when my best friend conceived her daughter.
I know very little except I’m the third of three and I’ve been told I slept in a drawer for a time after I was born because they didn’t have a crib for me. Which I always assumed meant I was a mistake: they had two (one boy, one girl) decided they were done, gave all the baby support equipment away, and then ooops!
(That doesn’t, however, explain why they didn’t buy a crib during the ensuing nine or so months they knew I was coming).
Mom never talked much about it. But the actual moment of insemination was apparently marked with one word: “Oops!”