Last week, Scott and I had something that most of our
society labels as a “scare” but I am choosing to call “a fork in the road.”
One night about two weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of
the night. Our daughter was crying in her sleep, but it wasn’t the nursery I
ran to.
It was the bathroom.
I lost everything in my stomach and I thought, “Oh, no, here
we go again.”
My mind raced with all the fears I had about having another
baby. Giving birth to Kevin was no picnic—and I certainly didn’t relish the
thought of throwing up every day for the next seven, eight, maybe nine months. Or
getting less sleep than I already was. Or trying to teach Kevin to walk when I
could only waddle myself. And I didn’t think I could go through the agony of a
sick baby in the NICU again.
Groan.
After Scott calmed down the baby and I cleaned up my mess,
we crawled back into bed and he tucked the covers around me. One look at him
and I knew he was wondering the same thing I was thinking. “Do you think you
could be pregnant?” he whispered.
For the next week, as I continued to not feel well, I
wondered, I worried, I did the math. Every time I looked at Kevin I counted the
months. If I go full-term this time—please
bless I go full term this time—I’m due in July. That’s 16 months.
Too soon. She’s not
ready. He’s not ready. I’M not ready.
When we got back from running errands and I carried Kevin up
the stairs, I wondered how I would manage carrying her and a car seat. The
stairs are too steep to let a 16-month-old climb on her own. And the next baby—please bless I go full-term—is likely to come out weighing upwards
of nine pounds.
When I picked up the house and cleaned, I wondered where on
earth we would put another baby. Our bedroom
was already full of the desk and bookcases we’d moved to make room in the
nursery and living room. Kevin’s room was overrunning with baby items she’s
already outgrown in eight months. The storage closet downstairs is full to the
brim of bikes my husband doesn’t have time to ride, Christmas decorations I can’t
bear to get rid of, fans we can’t survive the summer heat without…oh no. Pregnant during the summer?
I’m gonna die.
When Scott called to tell me about work, I wondered how he
would be able to stand working at his current job for three more months just to
make sure we could somewhat pay for another baby. Or what if that dream job actually
came along in May and we had to move and have a baby on Cobra insurance?
When I put Kevin down for a nap, I wondered what we would do
about the crib situation. I didn’t want to buy another one. Kevin wouldn’t be
ready for a big girl bed at 16 months, even if we had room for one. I don’t relish
the thought of buying another crib anyway. We’d picked this one knowing that it
would cuddle all of our babies.
I wondered about how things would go this time. I’ve been
telling myself since Kevin was born that I better just expect a stay in the NICU.
IDM, that’s what they’ll always call my babies: Infant of a Diabetic Mother. In their first days, Kevin’s siblings
will likely have the same difficulties she did regulating her blood sugar. Like her, would they have to wait over a week
to enjoy their first meal? Or would I get to actually nurse the baby normally this time?
Would nursing even work? Breastfeeding with Kevin was a nightmare because we
got off to such a rough start. She didn’t want me, and when she did, she wanted
a bottle an hour later. So I pumped and pumped and pumped to make it to my goal
of six months and then we said good riddance as I cleaned and put away the
breast pump and made room in our cupboard for cans of formula. But, maybe, just
maybe…I’d be able to nurse this baby within hours of his/her being born. And I
wouldn’t have to rely on a pump all day, just once in a while. Maybe I could
get it right this time.
And then, sometimes, when Kevin was napping and there was
peace and quiet, I wondered if we would have a boy or a girl. A girl would be
nice, we already have everything we need for a girl. Except a name. We have a
boy name all picked out (actually, we have two). But we don’t have any boy
clothes. Or boy nursery decorations. Or boy experience. I would surf
babycenter.com for names, for pregnancy information I’ve already forgotten. We’d
be due at the beginning of July. Well,
July is good. During July my mom isn’t teaching school. She could help.
But she’s going to
think you are crazy…we’ve had how many conversations in the last three months about
having babies too close together? How am I going to explain this one? Nobody
will buy that he/she is not a surprise…and how am I going to break it to my
friends that struggle with infertility that I’d been blessed with a too-soon
"oops" baby when they are going on years of trying for their first?
Sometimes, I’d think back to those days of when we brought
Kevin home from the hospital. How small she was. The way she would grip my
finger and cuddle up on my shoulder (she’s decided she’s too big to cuddle her
head on my shoulder now). Back when she
depended on me for everything. And how I loved holding my little newborn in my
arms.
Maybe, just maybe, we
could survive another baby.
My period was one day late, then two. It was Halloween. As
we packed Kevin up to go home from my parents, my mom made a comment about
Halloween next year and maybe I’d be sick again by then with a little brother
or sister. Scott and I exchanged smiles. Maybe
sooner than next fall, we both thought, and we were okay with it.
But the next morning, when I felt World War 3 begin in my
uterus, I realized, as I breathed a guilty sigh of relief, that it was okay.
Either way. We weren’t expecting, but if we were, it would be okay. And
finally, for the first time since Kevin had been born, I wasn’t terrified at
the thought of being pregnant and going through labor all over again.
We are making progress.
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