Although the timing was not intentional, my husband and I spent much of this Mother’s Day weekend discussing whether we could/should/want to expand our family again. My sweet peanut turned two a few months ago and, while our lives are still chaotic, we find ourselves in a rhythm that could accomodate change.
I’m logical by nature, someone who makes lists and considers pros and cons until a definitive answer is reached. I’m not at all accustomed, as is the case here, to discussing for two days only to have more questions than answers. We love our family, our lives, but that seems to be making the choice all the more difficult.
When I turned to my back-up plan (Magic 8 Ball), the murky response (“ask again later!”) was less than helpful. Research turned up a litany of women and families in a similar state of quandary, although I did find some of their thoughts and reasoning to be useful, one way or another. I found similarly calming statistics that, should we stop at T, it’s unlikely he would turn out to be a spoiled, anti-social sociopath merely for reason that he was raised as an “only.”
After all the talking, I can admit the following, if only to myself – what freaks me out the most is that, for the first time, I know this could be the “last time” or worse, that it already was. I hate the dea of being old enough, far enough into my life, that I’m beginning to have lasts. The past two years have been so full of firsts – steps, laughs, slides, kisses, foods, “mommys” and so much more, it’s nearly impossible for me to stop in the middle of that and switch gears, to say “no more firsts.”
It’s been an emotional weekend, and I’m tired. DH and I have no words left, only the lists and whatever is left still hanging in the air. While doing laundry this afternoon I caught myself staring at the totes (and totes, and more totes) of T’s outgrown clothes, shoes, toys…all the stuff we packed up “for the next one.” Because we always assumed there would be a next one, for no reason other than we never thought the opposite.