Round and Round She Goes

Out of the maelstrom of my befuddled, bewildered and bespectacled (no wait, that can't be right...) mind comes a subject that I don't want to think about, much less write about. But it's there in the back of my head, in the front of my head, in the great swirling emptiness where my rational brain should be. I've tried to brush it aside, push it away, dodge it, run from it, run to it, embrace it, love it and no matter what I do it's always there, like the audible hum of a fluorescent light. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, it creeps ever closer. The Boy is rapidly approaching the two year mark, the semi-arbitrary date that we chose to make the decision: Do we want another child? Although you make this decision as a couple, as a family, I think that, in some respects, you also make this decision alone. And hope to hell that your partner made the same decision you did.

I've always imagined that if I had kids, I would have kidS - plural. (And, by plural, I mean two kids, not three or four...) It was sort of a given in my head that children should have siblings. It's a testament to how much your childhood experience really does affect the rest of your life, I guess. Almost every one of my friends had a sibling, came from a two child family. And, as I believe that motherhood is an important experience, one that expands your horizons and makes you a better person, so too is brotherhood or sisterhood. It's a gift that only we can give The Boy, and lasts longer than any toy. But is that enough of a reason to have another?

And then there's the fear, my all-consuming fear of: CHANGE. Change is bad, very very bad, and we are in such a good place right now. We have a lovely Boy who is a joy to be around (most of the time), and why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why would we want to change that? I'm back at work and The Boy talking, running, jumping (well, trying very hard to jump) and, to my surprise, is loving daycare. I'm doing some university courses enroute to a career change, which would give me the extra time with The Boy that I crave. I'm volunteering and The Husband is doing a show and life is good. I'm selfish, I know. I want to have kids, love kids, be with kids, without being consumed by them. I don't want to lose my sense of self. I don't want to lose my relationship with The Husband. I need to know that I can have kidS (plural), and still have something left for myself, and for us. Selfish, selfish selfish. Most of all, though, I don't want to wake up one morning many distant years from now and find out that I made the wrong choice. That I do, in fact, want another child, and it's too late.

Too late. Silly, this conception of time, isn't it? I know that women have children rather late in life now. I know it's possible. I know it's not for me. For me, it's a now or never thing. I may be the one imposing this time crunch, but it doesn't make it any less real. And the truth is, I'm not getting any younger.

Honestly, I don't know why I'm so conflicted. Re-reading this, it sounds very much like I don't want another child. But the truth is, I do. Maybe I just want this baby to spring, Athena-like, fully formed out of the top of my head at the age of 12 months. I want to skip the round the clock feedings and non-stop crying jags and get straight to the good stuff. Selfishally, selfishaliscious, selfishiveness.

Many of my friends have made the leap or are actively TTC, and I am so envious of their certainty. Did they wake up one morning and just "know" that this was right thing to do? If I can't come to a decision, does that mean that it's not the right thing for me, for us? Actually, I wasn't one hundred percent sure when The Boy was conceived, and look how wonderful he turned out to be.

When I was doing some research on the internet, a site asked the question: "If you found out that couldn't have another child, would you be sad or relieved? Trust your gut instinct." Ironically, I had both reactions. I was sad that such a personal decision was taken out of my hands, but relieved that I didn't have to decide. And all the while, in the playroom, in the nursery, in the kitchen, there is this little person who flickers in and out of view like Princess Leia in her message to Obi-Wan Kenobi: "Help me, NoMo, you're my only hope." How can I say no?