This was the second most amazing day of my life (November 21, 2012), the day that Connor was born, and these photos of Elsa meeting him for the first time are some of my most treasured photos.
It was in early October of last year, so almost a year ago now, that I finally worked up the courage to tell Jody that I really really really wanted to have another baby. I had been thinking about it for months already, had gotten so excited about it, and had convinced myself that he wouldn’t say no to something that I wanted so so so so so so much. He said no and I was devastated. But he said no but left open the tiniest little door of hope in my mind that maybe he would think about it and maybe maybe maybe it was still a possibility.
In March of this year, I finally brought it up to him again. I was terrified because inside I knew he wasn’t going to go for it. I laid out all my carefully thought out reasons, and expressed to him just how desperately I wanted this, that I didn’t know if I would ever be able to not have the regret if we didn’t have a third baby. He was completely emphatic in his no this time. And also made me feel really shitty in psychoanalyzing why I felt the need to have another baby. It was a really hard time. I can’t even remember how long it took me before I could start being a little happy with him. My heart was so broken.
So it’s been about six months now since I’ve had my definitive “no”. I still almost daily get sad when I see a pregnancy photo or newborn photo on Instagram. I get really down whenever I hear someone announce a pregnancy. That sounds awful of me and I know it is. I’m happy for them but the most intense emotions are jealousy and sadness. I feel really selfish and awful even admitting that. I can imagine that any woman in my shoes would understand, but to most other people I probably sound mean, bitter, and a bit pathetic for holding onto this sadness.
At the end of May I decided to give myself something else to focus on. I started a Beachbody program, so daily 30-minute workouts and eating very well, and in coming up on four months, I’ve lost 15 pounds and almost 15 inches. I feel more amazing and confident than I’ve felt in years, and it has definitely helped to take the intense desire for a baby out of my mind a lot. There are some days when I think I’m getting used to the idea of just two children, and feeling okay with it.
But it’s still there. A week ago I managed to convince myself that there was a tiny possibility that maybe, just maybe, I could have gotten pregnant. Logically I know that Jody is hardly a 20-year-old boy who can’t control himself, but my mind manages to convince me that because we had sex right before I ovulated, then just MAYBE I can get a surprise positive. It’s ridiculous when I really think about it, but it’s all I’ve got right now so I’ll sometimes have a week where I convince myself that every time I’m super tired or every little feeling is because I’m pregnant. I wait for the day I should get my period and am so conscious of every feeling in that area, just willing no period to come. And then when it does, I feel devastated.
I read that little saying “choose happiness” and I think that probably it’s going to eventually have to be something like that, where I CHOOSE to be totally fine and happy with just two kids. And really, I adore my family. Any friend or Instagram follower could so quickly tell how much I love being a mom to my two amazing little loves. I love that they get along, I love watching them together, I love that I can sometimes have time for each of them alone, I love that at 3 1/2 and 1 1/2, they are at such a fun age where they still need me and are with me all the time, but it’s also so easy to do things now. So I so totally get how lucky I am. Really amazingly lucky. Like, really lucky.
But I still wish. And hope. And am sad sometimes and cry sometimes and dream sometimes and feel jealous sometimes. And I really wonder when and if that is ever going to go away. Will I have to wait until I’m in menopause and then the possibility is gone? Wait until I’m in my 50’s? When will I stop so wishing I could have another baby, be blissfully pregnant one last time, have one more sweet tiny newborn to watch grow up, have a billion sweet moments between Elsa, Connor and the new baby. It’s just so much always there, always in the back of my mind at least, so so strong. I just don’t know when it will go away. And I’ll keep hoping every month for an accident, even though I only have another year maybe before I’ll feel I’m really finally too old to be thinking about more babies. Maybe then it will be a different sadness, because it’s not a possibility but it’s still as much of a desire. When Connor, my baby, is in preschool and then real school, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. And I worry I’ll be jealous of every mom with younger children still at home. At least right now, with Elsa in preschool, I still have my little toddler on my hip to carry and be my baby.
I have no good answers yet. I just had to get this all out. I don’t really talk to anyone about this. Very occasionally to one of my friends but a) she’s pregnant and b) she knows just how much I wanted and want another baby and I know she doesn’t like to bring it up and feel that she’s making me sad. So it’s all in my head, I feel sad alone and put on a happy face. I get briefly teary and then come back down to do the dishes.
I so wish just one more. It would be amazing. Three kids.
Anyway, this will probably be a recurring theme here because it’s my only place to talk about it. And yes, I know how lucky I am to have two beautiful kids already and be staying home with them. I know I sound like whiney baby sometimes. It’s just something I’ve wanted so much and it’s really hard to let it go.
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