February 13th, 2012
Well, that was an enjoyable week! Few weeks? GOD I DO NOT EVEN KNOW. Y’all, we had the plague, and I know no one wants to talk about being sick, but it was hideous. Coughing! Barfing! Coughing! Peeing through pants! ALL THREE OF US. Well, wait, the peeing was just me, but don’t worry, I finally bought some Poise pads, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my God! Incontinence products are a pregnancy GAME CHANGER, did you know this?
(I think most people knew this.)
But seriously, I would gladly do ADVERTISEMENTS for these things. Before their discovery, I was doing laundry up to SIX TIMES A DAY. FOR MYSELF. THIS IS SO HUMILIATING.
One of the things that I keep thinking about is how if this baby works out (NO ONE COUNTS CHICKENS UP IN HERE), I am done with having children. Done. D O N E. Done. Whenever I hear other people having this conversation, it’s almost always after their child is already born, and they find themselves looking around, asking if everyone is here yet.
I want to be that way, I really do, but there are so many factors that help me realize that this is it. I would LOVE more children, honestly, I would, and I think if I’d started having them in my twenties, there would be a real possibility of having more. Alas, I’ll be halfway to 37 when this little peanut is born, and if my experience with Sam is any indication, I wouldn’t be remotely ready for another for at least three years, which puts me halfway to 40, and let’s be honest, here, my fertility is not particularly ROBUST, and at current rates, I’m guessing pregnancy would strike naturally at age 65, at which point my fetus would doubtless have nine limbs and four eyes, and I just don’t HAVE twenty years of trying to conceive in me, you know what I’m saying?
I would have — and will — fight for two. I don’t have the fight in me for three, which is sad, maybe, but there it is. And frankly, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to the hard parts being over forever. I don’t want to say that I want to wish any of it away — certainly not — but there is something thrilling about knowing this is likely my last pregnancy. I will never, God willing, barf for nine consecutive months again. I can put the Poise pads away until I’m geriatric. Save for nursing, I’ll have my body back to myself again, forever. Ibuprofen and I will be lovers again, forever and ever amen, and never shall we part.
And you know, I just . . . is it bad to admit I’m not a newborn person? I want to love them, and I do, of course, love my newborn babies, but I don’t enjoy them the way I do, say, babies six to nine months and even up. If humans gave birth to the equivalent of a one-year-old, I would have THIRTY CHILDREN, YOU GUYS. I WOULD.
But ugh, newborns. The non-sleeping. The mystery of what they could POSSIBLY NEED from a long list of MYSTERIOUS THINGS. They just . . . aren’t enjoyable. Then, of course, there is the potential for screaming and not-sleeping and newborns are SO STRESSFUL and so help me God, the only way I’m getting through this next child of mine is because I know, deep-down, that I’ll never have to do it again. When she sleeps through the night, that will be it, save for the usual regressions and sicknesses and setbacks, which are all infinitely livable compared to the everyday stress of wondering just how long your eyes will stay closed—if they close at all—before you’re jolted awake by that teeny tiny wail of neverending need.
God, though, I am also acutely AWARE now of how worth it they are. With Sam, I had no idea. I thought that was my life forever. I thought this tiny little pupa-like THING was all I would ever get, and I didn’t see how much fun kids could be. I had no idea she’d turn into a mail-obsessed comedienne who loves to be naked and hates purple popsicles and enters a room with, “What UP, Daddy?” when she’s feeling feisty.
Thank goodness there’s an ROI I’m aware of this time, is what I’m saying. But even so. I’m done. I’m looking forward to taking things in our family from the GROWING a family stage to that of raising one.
So yes. Two and done.
Is it weird to know that while she’s still in utero? Related: I will be handing my maternity clothes out to LITERALLY ANYONE. ON STREET CORNERS. HERE, HAVE SOME PANTS.