Originally published on For Me For Once

Jackson will be two soon. Samantha will be five in January. They are
the brightest parts of my life (along with my husband), and I can’t
remember my life without them. But I CAN, and do, remember being
pregnant with both of them. The time that I carried each of them was
sweet, fun, exciting, depressing, painful, overwhelming, scary,
life-changing and meaningful, all at once. Some days I look back on my
pregnancies with each of them and think “Dear God, how did I do that
twice?” and at other moments I wonder why everyone doesn’t have twelve.
For some reason I’m thinking a lot lately about being pregnant, or
rather NOT being pregnant, and how I feel about that, and I’ll tell you
why. (NO, it’s not because I am pregnant, so you can leave that thought
by the side of the road. Seriously. No seriously, knock it off - I am
NOT pregnant again. Fine, whatever. Think what you want.)

Here’s
why. Right now, Jackson is the age that Samantha was when we conceived
him. Just a couple of months before she turned two, we decided it might
be nice to give her a sibling fairly soon. I had always wanted my kids
to be two to three years apart, and I’m not even sure why. Part of me
wanted one child to be at least close to being out of diapers before
the next came along. Part of me wanted one who could at least bring me
a diaper for the other, if not actually change it. For some reason it
all seemed to center around diapers. That’s kind of jacked up, now that
I think about it. Hmm. Surely there must have been other reasons.

Whatever.
Regardless, we wanted them two to three years apart. And by “we” I mean
“me-and-Greg-who-showed-up-when-I-asked-him-to-with-sperm-at-the-ready”.

So (much as we did with Samantha) we decided to, and actually did,
become pregnant with Jackson the first time we tried. This seemed more
a miracle than you might think, since I only possess one ovary and had
never conceived a child before 2003. But the ol’ reproductive system
seems to work just fine, half-capacity or not, thankyouverymuch. And
coupled with Greg’s apparent super-sperm, two tries = two babies. I
mention this because while it’s wonderful to conceive with such great
ease, it was my first source of emotional upheaval, both times. No WAY
did I think I would get pregnant so quickly, and frankly I was hoping
for at least a couple of months to get used to the idea…especially
the second time around, when I KNEW what I was getting myself into. I
remember feeling so hesitant, scared and unsure the second time around,
much more than the first, having none of the blissful ignorance we are
blessed with the first time. That’s a whole ‘nother topic, folks. Check
out my original thoughts on that topic here.

But
hesitation eventually fades away, about 6 months after the second is
born (…bah-dum-CHING!…these are the jokes, people…) and we work
our way back to blissful. The joy of two is MORE than double the joy of
one, somehow. And baby #2 grows and burrows into our hearts right next
to the first, and we struggle to know how we ever doubted our choice to
have him, and how we ever lived without either of them.

And that
brings us to NOW. Now, when I am planning his second birthday party,
which I was doing for Samantha when I was carrying Jackson. So there is
a small, tiny, eensy-weensy, itty-bitty voice in my head that thinks I
should be carrying someone new while I plan a second birthday party. My
life and my brain work on the basis of symmetry, of all things being
equal and consistent, and similar. I’m anal like that. So frankly, NOT
being pregnant again right now is a little bit of an emotional upheaval
all on its own, but one of a different kind than being unsure I wanted
to be “with-child” when I already was.

How can I describe the flip-flopping I’ve done about this topic? How can I convey the indecisiveness?

OK, I think I’ve got it.  It’s kind of like thinking about getting on a roller coaster. Cast your mind.

You’re
at an amusement park. You’re checking out this roller coaster. You
watch other people get on and have a blast. Now, you’ve been on it
before yourself (twice in this case). You KNOW it’s a blast, but those
loops up high are pretty scary, and you’d already decided not to get on
again, for a number of reasons. And frankly, you really have other
things you might like to use your tickets for, things you haven’t done,
things that might be equally exciting and cool. What if you use up all
the tickets and then your kids want to do something and there’s not
enough tickets left? (There are no wrist-bands in this scenario, get
over it.) But still, it’s quite the ride. And there’s only a few
minutes left in the riding day - if you don’t get on now, or soon,
it’ll be too late. And while you might never miss that last ride, and
might be perfectly content with the two SUPER awesome rides you’ve
already taken, you can’t help wondering if you wouldn’t dig riding it
just one time more. And the line keeps moving forward, and you still
haven’t decided if you want to get in it. Maybe you’d like to, right?
Maybe? You wonder…maybe you’ll just get in line for a minute, and
think it over a little…

Then your husband taps you gently on
the shoulder. You, standing near the line, pondering a ride he will
undoubtedly enjoy but will have to pay for as well. He gently turns
your face with his fingers, looks deep into your eyes and says “You
have GOT to be shitting me, right?”

Ahh, reality. The husband factor.

Greg
is DONE with pregnancy and childbirth, and I get why that’s the case
for him. I am truly some kind of frightening, unpredictable,
unable-to-be-pleased, hormonal whirlwind when I am pregnant. And our
last go-round with childbirth was scary, overwhelming and expensive -
at least - and it culminated in our son spending his first week on
Earth in a NICU. Greg would agree that Jackson was worth every second
and every dime, as was Samantha worth the pre-eclampsia and the
scary-ness that accompanied her hypotonic state at birth. That being
said, Greg is unable to move himself past the relative horror we went
through both times, the bills we cringed at with Jackson, and the crazy
person his wife becomes every time he knocks her up. I can’t say that I
blame him.

So the tiny voice inside me can talk till she’s blue
in the face. And I really get what she’s saying, and I sometimes wish I
could give her her heart’s desire; and I really, really hope she can be
content with the two sweet dollies who grace our lives and give us joy
each day (I’m pretty sure she can be). I guess if God decides that the
one who’ll cure cancer or who’ll bring us world peace needs to come to
the world through us, then we’ll have another. But until then, it seems
the womb doors are closed. And…I guess that’s OK with me.

Mostly.

Editors Pick by Deb at Missives From Suburbia.  Cathy waxes poetically but practically about everything from parenting to internet addictions on her blog, For Me For Once.  I know it sounds cliche, but in Cathy’s case it’s true: you’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and you’ll kiss your precious free time goodbye as you wade through her witty and insightful writing.  Click over and check out her archives.  While you’re there, read the original post and its comments, then subscribe to her feed.