When the Boy was first born, and little and wee and tiny, and waking up every three hours, and having GERD, and I was in the throes of PPD, and crying, and sweating, and having panic attacks, I JUST. KNEW. I could never, ever, ever do it again. I could not for the life of me figure out how those poor Mamas could care for two little ones at the same.time.
I wanted the Boy to have time with just his Mama and Daddy, special time, three-of-us-time. I honestly could not see myself parenting two under the age of like, 10. I knew, in the farthest reaches of my brain, that I would want to get pregnant again before the age of 35, due to the rapid decline in fertility after that and the higher risk of birth defects, not to mention being called "advanced maternal age". This is a woman who had a weeping nervous breakdown in the middle of the street because her husband would not eat a bagel at the same time the 8-months-preggers woman wanted to eat a bagel, and then proceeded to cry for an hour. And then laughed about it. Please do not call me "advanced maternal age." Or I might bite off your nose and spit it out. Or eat it on a bagel.
But I honestly did not think I could do it. I didn't think I would WANT to do it.
The Boy is 14 months old now. Husband and I had a discussion this past weekend about the fact that neither of us could see me running around after two kids under the age of say, 3.5. I definitely could not see that, and don't want to see that.
But I am starting to see how it's possible that I could want to have another baby someday. I WANT to. I am thinking longingly about pregnancy- the kicks, the ultrasounds, the knowing I am creating life and how it's the most awesome thing ever. Despite all the barfing.
We did it so well the first time, I'm excited to see what the second time will bring.
In about three years. Please.