Two weeks ago, we decided we’re not done having babies. It had been up for discussion for months, but I was waffling. Which isn’t surprising, because usually in the time I spend contemplating whether the latest fashion would look good on me, it goes back out of style again. (But not skinny jeans! NEVER will I succumb to your lure. And that’s totally on principle and not just because they make me look like an upside-down triangle. Or Tweedle Dee.)
I told Matt it had stopped being an “if” in my mind — we were in FULL-BLOWN “when” territory. He was on board. We started planning. Ideal dates and what-ifs and how a new baby would fit into the inadvertent name scheme we’d ended up with.
(Have I told this story? Our intials, when put in order of our size, biggest to smallest, are MDVI. WE MADE A ROMAN NUMERAL. ACCIDENTALLY. I didn’t even realize it until Roo was several months old. AND, if she had been a boy, her first initial would have been an L. SO IT WOULD STILL WORK. This is the stuff that rocks my very world, you guys.)
So. More babies!
A couple weeks ago, I woke up feeling BLEH. For months now, drinking water early in the morning would make my stomach hurt, but this crap just continued all day long. There were other digestive issues of a non-bloggable sort. I was miserable.
And then the next day was the March for Babies! (Which I will post about soon! Complete with pictures of me in a tutu!) Don’t you love how that lines up? But I felt mostly better that morning, made it through the walk, and all was well. Until we decided to go out to lunch for my sister-in-law’s birthday. And then straight to my mom’s. Which was where I found the wall. AS I HIT IT.
There I was, curled up in my mom’s bed like I was six years old, feeling like I’d been hit by a bus. I was exhausted. Several weekends in a row of not stopping, bookending weeks of running myself ragged tending to the girls and the house. Something had to give.
And I thought, I cannot do it again. Something has to give.
As sure as I’d been just a week before, I was sure I was done having kids. (Well, planning kids. I’m sure if I were to find myself pregnant, I’d be over the moon. But planning it and having the proverbial stork drop by are very different things.) Our family felt complete. Four of us. My two beautiful daughters. No stinky boys. Perfection.
Yesterday I was tackling some laundry that had been washed and thrown in baskets and left to fend for itself in the insanity of our living room. It had been there over a week. Well, not in the living room for over a week. I had the courtesy to move the baskets into the bedroom when we were expecting company. I’m not an ANIMAL.
I started with the girls’ clothes, folding everything neatly into separate piles — pajamas, socks, t-shirts — and I realized some of Roo’s onesies were getting a bit small and dingy and need throwing away. What a shame, I thought, that these are too damaged to use for another baby. My mind immediately flew to the plastic tubs of baby clothes stored under Vio’s bed. And the swing and the bouncer and the tub of baby toys in the attic. Things we didn’t need anymore if we weren’t having more kids.
Getting rid of it seems pretty final.
And now? Now I’m not so sure about anything. At all.