My husband doesn’t read my blog. At least, I don’t think he does. To test my theory, I am going to throw this out there and wait:
I wish we could have another child.
There. I said it.
My youngest is turning a year old in two months. He is crawling and walking and too busy to snuggle for hours. I am experiencing that particular mix of pride and sadness that the first year is almost over. I instinctively reach for my empty belly and wish I could do it all over again.
I loved being pregnant. Even this last time with twice-weekly monitoring sessions and pre-eclampsia that had me worried most of the time, I loved it.
I also love babies. I love how they meld themselves on your chest as they sleep and clutch your clothes in their little fists to hang on.
A few things prevent me from having another child. First, since I had pre-eclampsia last time, I’m likely to have a repeat case should I become pregnant. Possibly a more severe case that could threaten my life and/or the life of my child.
Second, although biological children are out of the question, adoption is out as well. The high cost of living in Colorado is reflected in the cost of childcare. We are a two-income family in order to survive. Financially, a third baby would ruin us.
Finally, I am thankful for my sweet family just as it is. I already feel guilty that I don’t have enough time to share with two kids.
My desire to have another child is not coming from a position of lack. It’s something much more complicated. In my last post, I said I wouldn’t blame age for how I feel. Maybe I can get away with it here.
Forget sports cars and bungee-jumping. My mid-life crisis is that I won’t hold a tiny baby that is mine ever again. There. It’s out.
Time to lift my chin and go in to pick up my baby who just woke up and is raising his little arms up, elbows first, in his best little chicken impression.
This too, shall pass.