Remember when I adamantly begged all of you to talk me down from the ledge the minute I started considering a third child? Well my friends – the time has arrived. My son is only five months old and I’m already yearning to give him another sibling.
With my first son I was so excited for each milestone and couldn’t wait for the next. I remember cheering aloud the minute he could hold his own bottle or could sit up without assistance because, selfishly, this meant less work for me. I loved seeing him grow and learn new things, take his first steps and say new words. It was all so heartwarming and as a new parent it made me feel as if I was doing something right.
With my new baby the table has completely turned. Each first milestone accomplished for him – is one last milestone experience for me. It wasn’t until I witnessed him smile for the first time that I realized I might never get to experience this moment again. The minute the corners of his mouth bowed up into his cheeks as he lovingly gazed into my eyes, a feeling of pure happiness came over me followed by one of deep sadness. I couldn’t tell if my tears were that of joy or pain. Those were feelings I wasn’t prepared for and apparently neither was my uterus. My mind was begging for another baby while my body was running for the hills.
Now with each move my baby makes I alert my husband with a sad face and state, “That was my last first.” I cried after his first giggle, when he rolled himself over, when he first grabbed his lovie, and even when he had his first big diaper blowout. Yes, I didn’t even mind cleaning up the epic mess that sprawled all the way up his back and into his hair.
Some might say this is a tinge of postpartum depression. My husband likes to joke that I have eternal baby fever because babies are essentially like crack cocaine to me. He’s right, I’m obsessed – it’s a problem. But maybe I feel so desperate for another because I know my fertile days are numbered? Or because closing the baby-making chapter in my life sounds a bit depressing. That would mean I’m getting older and that’s a hard pill to swallow. Where’s the fountain of youth when you need it?
Knowing my history with getting pregnant and carrying the baby itself, the odds of us having another child is pretty slim to none. Plus, I’m pretty sure I would have to Roofie my husband and take advantage of his comatose state to get pregnant. He is absolutely not on board the third-baby-having-train. He also has no plans of changing his ticket either, unless of course, I relentlessly beg him and remind him of the old saying, “Happy Wife – Happy Life”.
Until we come to our ultimate decision my coping mechanisms will be to try and capture every second of his life so I can replay them over and over again. I will also remember to savor each and every hug, kiss and cuddle. I may even be that mom who nurses her son until he’s ten to keep our bond strong. Just kidding I’m not that crazy – only until he’s eight. In the meantime, I’m afraid I might need a psychiatrist on hand. Know any good ones?