If you’re a ’90s kid, chances are, at some point in your life, you’ve played M.A.S.H. No, I’m not talking about the TV series about doctors during the Korean War — I’m talking about the little piece of notebook paper that was guaranteed to tell your future. See, you remember! There were categories like future spouse, what kind of car you’ll drive, and, of course, how many kids you’d have.
Options tended to range from zero to 200, but the number I always hoped I’d get was two. I’d grown up with one brother, and that always seemed like the perfect setup. The kid-to-parent ratio was 1:1, and having four of us was a nice, round number. We all fit in a log on Splash Mountain together, always fit in a diner booth. And there was plenty of room in the car for road trips.
When I got married, my husband and I talked at length about how many children we wanted to have. We settled on two, and hoped for one boy and one girl. Two girls would also be acceptable, but my husband wanted a boy to pass on the family name. Two boys sounded like a lot of work. Of course we knew that there’s no way to plan any of those things, but it was nice to dream about what we considered the perfect family.
In 2015, I gave birth to my daughter
I had a pregnancy scare about six months after she was born. I couldn’t imagine being pregnant while caring for a 6-month-old baby. Luckily, I was just being paranoid. Yet, that feeling of panic and aversion when I’ve considered getting pregnant again hasn’t really left.
As any mom knows, people like to stick their nose in your business when it comes to your kids. One of the most unwelcome things that well-meaning people say to me is, “So, are you ready for number two?” At first, my planned response was, “Oh, I don’t want two in diapers at the same time.” Then, once she was almost finished potty training, I had to switch it up. “I want her in kindergarten before I get pregnant again.”
Well, she started kindergarten this fall. And, yet, I’m still not ready.
Why not? What’s holding me back?
Um, how about EVERYTHING?
With a full-time job, one child, and a fixer-upper home, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water as it is. My mental health is in the toilet due to COVID-19 and the upcoming election. Our forests are on fire, our streets stir with unrest, and being pregnant on top of everything else just sounds like a nightmare.
My first pregnancy wasn’t the horror show that many women face, but it was most definitely uncomfortable. I developed preeclampsia at 35 weeks and swelled up like a balloon. I spent my labor stuck in a hospital bed, pumped full of some kind of anti-preeclampsia medicine, unable to eat or walk because I was at risk of having a seizure. I didn’t eat or sleep for three days, and then I was sent home with a slightly premature newborn that struggled to nurse. I was torn and stitched up, tired beyond all reason, bleeding and sore.
Again, my daughter wasn’t a difficult baby, but she was still a baby
A baby that needed night feedings, that wouldn’t go to sleep in her crib, and all the other things a newborn does.
As a toddler, she still woke up at night. I didn’t get a full night’s sleep for what felt like years. She still gets in bed with us almost every night. Two adults and a 5-year-old makes for a pretty full queen-size bed (especially when the cats join us). Often, I’m still ending up on the couch trying to get a decent night’s sleep.
And, honestly, we have a good thing going. When my husband needs time to work on his grad school stuff, I can take our daughter. When I need time to work, he can take over. It’s incredibly easy to take my daughter places, have her along for any activity. She’s so portable. I cringe when I think of the days of the diaper bag and the stroller.
I know there’s no “good time” to have a baby
There are certainly very bad times, but the perfect time will never come about where all of your ducks are in a perfect row. But I just can’t get myself psyched up to go through all of it again.
I’m 36. My time is running out. I’m already considered a “geriatric pregnancy.” All I can think is that I must be incredibly selfish. My daughter says she wants a sibling. She wants someone to play with, and she loves babies. Besides that, when she grows up, and her father and I are old and needy, she shouldn’t have to bear the entire burden of our care and attention all by herself. My aunts and uncles take turns taking care of my grandmother’s needs, and I can’t imagine my mother having to shoulder it all herself.
At this point, I honestly don’t know what to do
I’ve taken the first step, at least. I quit taking my birth control pills. My husband and I are actively “trying,” but I haven’t been charting my cycles and I’m not using ovulation tests. I can’t bring myself to fully commit. Not yet. But my time’s running out. I need to make a decision. I just don’t know how.
There’s no tidy end to this story, at least not yet. But if you’re a mom out there struggling with this decision yourself, please know that you’re not alone.
