I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
That has become my mantra for when I go through the various baby items Baby Girl no longer uses.
There’s the tummy time mat, the play mat, the bouncer seat, the swing, the bumbo seat. Admittedly, she probably didn’t use any of these items more than a handful of times because unlike Little Man, she preferred to be held constantly (and we were happy to oblige), but still.
Getting rid of these items is another sign–like BG moving in 12M size clothes a few weeks ago–that the baby days are numbered.
I have a hard time dealing with watching the kids grow up. I’m know I’m not the only parent who struggles with this, of course, but it hits awfully hard at times. When Baby Girl cut her first tooth, my husband was thrilled, but all I could think was “I may never have another toothless baby again.” It’s almost like a part of me is grieving for the baby, the toddler, the kindergartner, etc. that will never be again.
And now it looks as though the likelihood that I’ll never have another toothless baby is about to move to 100 percent (well, 99.999 percent), as my husband visited a urologist to discuss getting a vasectomy last week.
I knew this was coming. My husband wasn’t convinced that he wanted a second child until after he saw a positive pregnancy test. And he was so sure that he didn’t want a third kid that he volunteered me to have a tubal during the c-section.
“Why push our luck?” my husband asked when discussing a third kid before his visit to the urologist. “We’ve lost two already and you had two very stressful pregnancies, especially the last one. Do you really want to go through that again?”
I’m pretty sure that I’m happy with the current size of our little family. I was even more sure of that during the pregnancy scare we had last month when I screwed up my birth control pills, the incident that prompted my husband to schedule an appointment with a urologist. How in the hell will I handle three kids when I feel like I suck at handling two?! I thought during the scare.
There’s also the issue of the meds I currently take–one is category C and one is category D for pregnancy. I’m not willing to put a baby at risk, so obviously I wouldn’t take the meds if I were to become pregnant (and quitting the meds is not something I want to do either). My husband says that even thinking about going off the meds when things are improving isn’t an option, so the matter is settled in his mind.
Despite all that, I’m not 100 percent sure like my husband is. I don’t feel like my body is done. I’m not sure that I’m ready to say at 31 that I will never carry another child. Never feel the little flutters from the baby’s first movements again, never feel those jabs to my rib cage, never feel those somersaults. Maybe a woman, a mom never feels like she is done in that regard.
I’m pretty sure that even if I had five more babies, I’d still feel the same, though. So even though emotionally I may not be ready to say “we’re done,” I know it’s the most logical thing. I told my husband to go ahead and schedule the appointment.
Trying to accept that we’re done building our family hurts. A lot. But falling into that trap of longing for being pregnant, newborn days, the baby days, etc. and ultimately getting depressed by it all (as I have before and will again if I’m not careful) just cheats me out of enjoying my kids in the present, so I have to try to force myself not to get lost in that type of thinking. Easier said that done, but try I will.