Growing up I always wanted a big family. First I would say, “I want five or six kids.” I remember once when Bobby and I were talking about it early in our marriage and he said he thought two was a good number and I was horrified. Then I had one, and even though he was a pretty easy baby, I thought, ok, “I’d like three.”
Then I had a second, and she was, um, let’s say, difficult. Because I was violently ill for about the first 15 weeks of my pregnancy with her, I was already feeling before she was even born, that there was no way I could possibly go through that again. Still, when I was on the operating table after Sophie was born, when my doctor asked me if I wanted her to tie my tubes, I said no. Because I was 29, and I just wasn’t ready to say that my childbearing years were over.
And then in the ensuing weeks, the transition from being a mother of one to being a mother of two pretty much solidified it for me. I was done. Even though, after I decided that, I would get sad thinking of that bunch of kids I wanted to have that I was not going to have.
But now, over three years later, I wonder. I’m 32, if we’re gonna do this, we should do this. But can we? Do we want to? I’ve already told my mom to put away her hopes and the high chair she keeps in her dining room.
I’m doing so well on my depression/anxiety meds, do I want to mess with that? I really don’t.
But sometimes, looking at our two amazing kids, Bobby and I look at each other, and say, “Wow we make amazing kids. Maybe we need another one.”