The Next Big Thing

Truth Tuesday

The other day, my neighbor, after a few minutes of the usual chit-chat, asked me a question that a lot of other people also have asked me lately – “so, how many more kids do you want?”

(Just as an aside - It’s always something, isn’t it? You’ve been dating someone for 3 months, and people want to know if you’re getting married. Then you get married, and the honeymoon’s barely over when folks start inquiring about your reproductive plans and going “ooooooooo…” every time you mention feeling sick to your stomach. Then you have a baby - not just any baby, mind you, but the most intelligent, comely, effervescent little human being ever to toddle the earth* - and still they want more. Does there really always have to be a next thing?)

Ahem. So anyway, I replied, “I don’t think we’re going to have any more kids.” But with a wee shrug, indicating some ambivalence about the whole thing.

She asked my age – “36.” “Meh, you could squeeze out another one if you wanted.” Despite the squeezing-related mental images that immediately began playing in my head, I managed another shrug, and thought to myself, “yeah, I guess I could.”

But I probably won’t. There are a number of reasoned arguments for and against expanding the family, but I’m going to address one very important, unreasoned one: I don’t wanna.

But unlike my 2-year-old, I’m not just putting my foot down and refusing to do something as a way of asserting my independence. There are a lot of layers of conflicting emotions and impulses under that “no.” On one hand, I love little babies. Love them. Their little tummies and toes and wide gummy smiles turn me into a stupid mess of wuvvies. Sometimes I miss the feeling of cuddling my tiny infant son. But I’ve gotten to know him so much better since then. He can talk to me now, tell me what’s on his mind. He’s so…real.

When I look back on those first couple of months after my son was born, something about the experience seems not quite real. Parts of it I’ve completely forgotten. But I do remember some hard times in between the sweetness and cuddles. Nursing was a nightmare. Sleep deprivation made me cry, a lot. My husband’s blissful jaunt off to work every morning made me livid at the unfairness of everything in the world. But worse than all of these passing unpleasant feelings was the fear. Babies are so tiny and vulnerable. For that first year and even beyond, every second of my life seemed consumed with sheer terror at the thought that something bad could happen to him. In many ways, it still is, and perhaps always will be. The thought of multiplying that terror by two is overwhelming.

But there is a positive, happy side of that “no.” It means this: Things are good. Really good. My family is happy and healthy and it seems complete to me. When I coo over a friend’s baby, it’s not longing, but delight that I feel – at getting to spend a little time in that dear little person’s presence, before handing him back to mom and dad.

*Note: This article may contain some slight exaggerations and barely-noticeable biases.

Photo by Jen B.