People ask me if I want anymore children. It comes up a lot. I usually just give the short answer. “No.”
I don’t find it necessary to go into details or tell them how I really
feel. If you really want to know, if you
want to know my true feelings, here is my honest answer.
When I was pregnant with my third, he was going to be our
last. I’ve been told that you know when
your family is complete. It’s a feeling
I was supposed to get after he was born.
Three is a good number. My
husband and I never talked about it but it was almost as though we had an
unspoken agreement. After I had my first
two, I had a feeling that our family was not complete. It wasn’t the grieving over no longer being
pregnant. It was a completely different set of feelings. Bottom line, we were not done. I anticipated
that I would feel different after my third.
I knew I would miss pregnancy. I
would hold him and cry. My gut would
ache with every phantom kick. I would
long to feel him move within me. I
expected these things. I also expected I
would understand that feeling of being done.
Eleven months have passed and I have yet to feel that. My head tells me one thing but heart tells me
something completely different.
I can list so many reasons why my husband and I should not
have anymore children. They are
expensive. My daughter alone has cost us
more than we anticipated between therapies, equipment, and visits to
specialists. They need to be fed and
clothed. I want to give them a good
education. I want to take them on
vacation every year. Every little
expense adds up. It certainly does not
help that I enjoy spending money. We
lost a second income when I quit my job at the hospital. My hours and childcare costs would amount to
nothing in the end. Childcare for three,
school hours, and therapies are a tricky balancing act. I am often times frustrated. A four year old and three year old has done a
number on my ability to stay calm. They
yell, fight, talk back, don’t listen all the time, and are moodier than
teenagers. Why add another child to the
mix? How would I take them out? My daughter still needs lifted and help
walking. In fact, she can’t just walk
next to me at the store. My middle child
is a runner. If he sees something that
interests him, he bolts. My youngest is
going on a year. Taking all three out
can be a huge challenge. I have learned
the ins and outs of it but there is a lot of sweat, swearing under my breath,
and raised voices in the process. I am touched
out. My baby is still nursing. My
daughter grabs me as a means to find her balance. My middle child jumps on me and sticks his long,
cold feet up my shorts and makes me jump out of the chair and want to
scream. Someone always wants to cuddle,
be held, or nurse. It’s not a bad
thing. Any mom can relate. We love our babies but we also need
space. I want to go back to school. I want to study to become a lactation
consultant. I can’t imagine doing it
now, let alone with four. I’m “older”. I’m hitting the dreaded term, “advanced
maternal age”. I’m only 33. I’ll be 34 next month. In the pregnancy world, that’s older. I have no issue with women in their late
thirties and early forties having babies.
It’s just not something I want to do.
I don’t want to hear “it”. “It”
is the words of concern, disagreement, criticism, unwanted advice, and shame
from others. When I was pregnant with my
third, people told me I should be done after him, that I don’t need anymore, I
should get my tubes tied, and three is enough.
I can’t imagine how unsupportive people would be if I had another. That should not matter but I am a sensitive
person. I want support, not criticism. If I keep telling myself all of the above
reason why I should not have another, it should confirm that I am done. So why doesn’t it?
Since November 2009, my identity has been being pregnant or
breastfeeding. I have had no break in
between. Perhaps, I don’t know how to
not be pregnant or nursing because that’s what I have come to know. After all is said and done, and my last baby
closes his eyes after he last nurses I will have my body back. And then what? All I have come to know is sharing my
body. As much as I want and need it
back, it has become who I am. Sure I
will still be needed in other ways. It’s
just different. I will adapt. I will move on. But there is nothing like
holding my baby against me, his warm skin on mine, his little hands on stroking
my chest, his hums, his flaring toes, his breath on my breast…there is nothing
that can compare. Regardless of having
another child, this will end. At some
point, there will be that last time.
Time is cruel. My body will
eventually succumb to age and the possibility of having no more children will
be a reality.
I look back all the reasons that I shouldn’t have another
and it looks obvious that I should be done. The reasons are valid and should confirm that
three is the magic number. But deep
inside, I just can’t get rid of the feeling that it is not. Do I let go?
Do I live wondering, “what if?”
Do I hold on? Do I keep the tubs
of clothes, the bassinet, the bouncy, and the bottles? Do I mentally plan for another? Only time will tell. I have faith that whatever happens, it was
meant to be but there is that piece of me that holds hope that the plan
involves another child.
