For a while now, I’ve been thinking about how to share these thoughts, and I haven’t dreamed up any good hooks or woven together any interesting story. Which is probably to be expected, since I’m not entirely sure what my thoughts actually are. But I’ve decided it’s better to ramble aloud rather than ramble around in my head, so that’s what I plan to do here – ramble.
I don’t know if I want to have another baby.
On the one hand, there’s the fact that after Isla was born I wouldn’t let Tahd leave the hospital until he promised me we weren’t done. “Wouldn’t let” is a strong phrase. It was more like “I bawled my eyes out and told Tahd I couldn’t imagine this being the last time” and he saw my hormonal, postpartum mess of emotions and promised that we didn’t have to be done. There’s also the welcoming of another tiny babe into the family, a (hopefully) closer-in-age sibling for Isla, a larger family for when they all grow up and go about their own business. And, of course, more love – more love all around, which is always a beautiful thing.
On the other hand, there’s…oh, I don’t know…shitty infertility. I’m sorry – I tried to write “sucky infertility” to avoid the vulgarity but it just doesn’t have the same depth to it. Infertility is really, really shitty. The end. Having been infertile for six-ish years, would I even be able to get pregnant again? Before I got pregnant with Isla, my fertilty clinic told me if I wanted to do ivf again with my own eggs I needed to do it asap because my hormone levels were declining into bankrupt territory. Granted, I got pregnant on my own 6 months after they told me that, but is it really emotionally safe to assume it would happen again?
There’s also the fact that I’d have to undergo another pregnancy, a state in which I become really, really irrational. I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times I told Tahd to try to be less annoying while I was pregnant with Isla. And the anxiety over possibly losing the baby – well, it overtook me to the point that I’m sincerely surprised I survived. Looking back, I was so unwell, and I’m afraid of going back to that vacuous, tortured place.
And then we’d actually have another child – not just the “idea” of another child, but an actual, living child who had needs. I’m not sure I’m currently keeping all our balls in the air. Add a third baby and something will surely drop, right?
But then I’m back to the first hand, wherein I just know I want one more, for all the pure and joyful reasons I can imagine.
So there I sit, straddling a decidedly uncomfortable fence that has gotten increasingly more pointed since my breastfeeding hormones have degraded to the place where they’ve allowed my body to actually try working on this whole menstrual cycle thing again.
There’s also the fact that we’ve done the whole “not preventing” thing so far, and at this point it has gotten me fat petunia nothing, which has opened the door to the creeping “trying-to-conceive” obsession that is both most unwelcome and so ingrained that it has become a 6-year-deep default thinking pattern.
I don’t want to go to the crazy place, but I don’t want to give up, either.
So I think about it every day, enamored by the idea that we’re making the right decision and consumed by the undercurrent of fear and failure. I’d like to approach this differently, but I’m not sure how. So I keep doing the same thing and expecting different results – which I know is supposedly insanity, but it worked for me in trying to get Isla, in which I did the same thing approximately 65 times (i.e. cycles) and got her on the 66th.
That is a lot of times.
I don’t think I have it in me to wait that long again.
This post needs a picture. I think I’ll post the one that makes my ovaries ache the most.