samedi 3 février 2018
Oh Sh*t! Do I Want Another Baby?
I've always been very firm and confident about my decision to have two children. Sometimes I frame it in a self-deprecating sort of way (i.e., I would probably go crazy or start drinking wine at lunch if I had more). Sometimes, I point to the numbers game - two kids, two parents, makes sense to me. Other times, I tell myself that limiting our family to two kids means they each get more attention, time, and financial resources (in other words, having just one sibling is in their best interests).
But just recently, as my youngest child's fourth birthday got closer and closer, I started having a new, unfamiliar, and much less comfortable feeling about the perfect number of children I've been so confident about. Like, maybe I should have had one more.
I understand that baby fever is probably a natural reaction for any mom who's saying a final goodbye to the baby/toddler stage. Those years are so physically exhausting and overwhelming, but they're also extremely purposeful. Never again will our children have such immediate needs and require so much from us 24 hours a day. Every mom of small children occasionally daydreams about the future, when we'll drop off our kids for a full day of school and they'll be able to dress and feed and entertain themselves. But once that day arrives, our reaction to being needed less is probably more complicated than simple joy.
I love this new stage my children are entering (my oldest turns 7 in a couple of months). They are becoming more and more independent, and their developing personalities continue to delight my husband and me. But I also have a phantom itch for the singular purpose of 3 a.m. feedings and diaper changes and naptime struggles. I've been all-in moming for so long now that I've forgotten there's a world that doesn't center around meeting the all-encompassing demands of tiny humans.
So, like any mommy masochist, I feel a part of myself wishing for more of the pain that comes with high-risk pregnancies, sleepless nights, cracked nipples, and doing everything with one arm because the other is holding a baby.
And then I look at my now 4-year-old, who ran into my room yesterday morning and, seeing his dad, sister, and me cuddling in bed, asked, "Can I join this party?" I remember how lovely it is to have a few hours on the days he's in preschool to run errands or just be in my home alone, when I can tidy up a room and know it will still be neat five minutes later. I think about how nice it is that we're going to movies and dinners and museums together as a family, knowing everyone will enjoy the experience and the odds of a major meltdown are becoming slimmer and slimmer.
And I remember that shortly after my daughter's seventh birthday, I'll celebrate my 39th. I think about how much harder a pregnancy would be now than at 34, how much more exhausting it would be to get my daughter on a bus at 7:30 a.m. every school morning after being up with a baby all night. And I realize that the baby itch is not one I should scratch. There are other ways to grow our family - namely by adding a four-legged member. I'm mailing our deposit for a puppy today.
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