Note: This article is longer than most.
It's been over a month since I have posted anything. The reason is not because I haven't had anything to write. It's more complicated than that. The reason is that the subject is very personal and vulnerable. As a writer, whenever I think of writing something that excites me, I defer. As with my previous posts, those were simply passing opinions; sitting in a park, I notice something that sparks an opinion. I jot it down in my phone, go home, and write about it. But when I think of something I want to write that is extremely personal, having only snippets of formed sentences isn't enough for me to sit down and write. When it's personal, I want to ensure I get the right words out; that I really express what it is that I am trying to say. There are a few reasons why this article would scare me: like I said before, it's personal and vulnerable. There is room here for judgement and disagreement. When I write opinion articles or post opinions on my Facebook, quite often, I am looking for someone to challenge me - I like a good debate. But in this article, I'm not looking for a debate. This is the truth. Secondly, and this is the biggest reason, I don't want to offend anyone. When it comes to a subject like this, an opinion in regards to parents and child-rearing, it's very sensitive. I don't know one parent who is 100% confident in their choices as a parent and it has the potential of really hurting someone. And so, before I begin, I would like to write a disclaimer.
DISCLAIMER: THIS ARTICLE IS ABOUT PERSONAL EXPERIENCE ONLY. THOSE WHO HAVE CHOSEN TO HAVE MORE THAN ONE CHILD HAVE CHOSEN SO FOR THEIR OWN DESIRES. I DO NOT JUDGE THEM, I DO NOT THINK THEY ARE BAD PEOPLE FOR CHOOSING TO HAVE MORE THAN ONE CHILD. THERE ARE PROS AND CONS TO EVERY SITUATION. BELOW, I WILL STATE THE PROS FOR WHICH I FELT STRONGLY IN REGARD TO MY DECISION-MAKING.
You're probably asking yourself why, then, if I am so worried about hurting someone's feelings, would I choose to write this article. Well, it's simple. I cannot be the only one who has had to make this decision. It took me a VERY long time, a lot of soul-searching and discussions, to make this decision. And so this article is for any woman, or mother, out there who realizes AFTER becoming a mother that her ideas and feelings towards motherhood have shifted. I dedicate this to any mother who is currently doing the soul searching I was, who is quickly realizing that, suddenly, she wants something different than she always thought she wanted.
The Beginning
My entire life, I'd always wanted to be a mom. I LOVED kids, babies mostly. I don't know what it was, but I couldn't get enough of them. I counted down until I was 12 and was able to get my babysitting license and start babysitting. And I loved babysitting. I was really good with kids. My mom even called me the baby magnet because babies and toddlers naturally flocked to me. When I was in grade 5, my little brother had just started kindergarten (we're 5 years apart) and my mom and I thought it would be a nice thing to do to volunteer to be a lunch monitor in his class. When it came to being around a large group of kids, this was the ONLY time I wasn't shy (I was painfully shy as a child - couldn't even sneeze in class). I didn't care who was there or who was watching me, I wanted to be the leader. I developed a clapping system that alerted to the children that it was time to be quiet (I'm pretty sure I'd gotten it from another of my teachers), I directed them in cleaning up after themselves, I read stories while sitting in the rocking chair, all the kids sitting criss-cross-applesauce in front of me. Even the adult lunch monitor would get irritated because she literally had nothing to do. All the kids came to me. That was when I decided I either wanted to work in a daycare or be a teacher when I grew up.
I babysat all through my teen years, I was fun and strict and respected. Parents loved it when I babysat their kids because they knew they were well taken care of. But then the older teen years hit and I started hanging out with friends more and doing the things teenagers do when they are trying to rebel and I stopped babysitting. I think my last legit babysitting job was when I was 15. Anyhow, in grade 11, I had the opportunity to co-op at a local daycare. I was really excited. However, over that year, I had developed something that would later be diagnosed as social anxiety disorder. I had no idea at the time that that was what I had. I was just scared of everything. I vividly remember standing in the front lobby of the daycare waiting to sign some forms and this kid comes up to me and says something. All I remember is how hard it was for me to talk to him. Normally, I would bend over with my hands on my knees and talk to him with that little voice people use when they talk to children, but for some reason, I couldn't do it. I was too aware of the people around me, the people who were watching me and waiting to see how I would react with the kid. I left there completely discouraged. I refused the co-op placement after that.
Complications
Fast-forward a few years and people around me start having babies. I was with a man I had been with for a very long time, we were married and we both had good jobs. It was time to have a baby. Well, having a baby was a little more complicated for me. I have something called PCOS which, in easily explained terms, means I don't ovulate by myself. Since I'd been pregnant twice before (both accidental pregnancies that didn't make it to term), my doctor knew I was capable and it wasn't an issue with my husband, that it was an issue with me. We did some tests and an ultrasound to conclusively diagnosis me and then we set out to try Clomid, which is a medication that helps you ovulate. Within 30 days, I was pregnant.
I was ecstatic! I couldn't believe it! Finally, I would have my baby! There were some issues, like the fact that I had to be extremely careful since, with PCOS, I was at a much higher rate for miscarriage, but thankfully my pregnancy was smooth sailing (once the morning sickness went away). However, around 7 months, I started getting this intense feeling of dread. I didn't know what it was at the time but in hindsight, I think it was my subconscious telling me that this was going to be a lot harder than I was imagining it would be. I was good with babies! I knew how to read them, I knew how to change diapers, I knew how to hold a newborn, I knew how to mix formula in a bottle! I was golden!
A Baby Is Born
Well, on July 16, 2011, my little donkey was born. He was beautiful - he didn't cry, he was fat, and he was mine.
The "problems" started almost immediately. My son was born at 6:30 in the evening and so I am sure that that was his morning. I was tired that night, obviously, and so was my husband and all I wanted to do was sleep. The baby slept for a bit but then around midnight, he started crying. My husband woke me up asking me if the baby was crying (we were in a shared room with another woman and her baby) and I said, "No, I would know if MY baby was crying." But I looked up, and sure enough, he was crying. That scared me. Maybe my maternal instinct just hadn't kicked in yet. Here's the reason why: I was so unsure of myself.
My nurses were older, experienced, and thought they knew all babies because they'd known one. Because of the mishap with not knowing he'd been crying, I didn't trust my motherly instincts yet. Anyways, it turns out he'd been crying for two whole days because he was hungry. Because of issues with my anatomy and the fact that he was severely tongue tied, he wasn't latching. I didn't know if he was getting anything. The nurses kept telling me NOT to give him a soother or a bottle until he'd mastered latching - and did we ever try to master latching!
After roughly 36 hours with little to no sleep, I marched up the nurses' station and told her I needed to supplement. I sat there, feeling judged and defending my decision because the other nurse (who had been there when my son started gagging and choking on some leftover fluid and beat his back like he was a bag of flour) told me that babies aren't born hungry and, in fact, usually aren't hungry for at least 3-4 days because of all the fluid they'd been ingesting. But I would have bet money that this little boy, the one who was searching for the boob 5 minutes after being born (although it wasn't possible that he was already hungry - oh no!) was hungry. My milk still hadn't come in (for which it never really did), so I relented. And although that nice little nurse immediately handed me a small bottle of formula without an objection, I still felt completely judged. But then, I walked back to my room, held that crying little man, stuck the bottle in his mouth (well, at least we knew he could latch to something), and he sucked that bottle dry. Then, for the first time in almost 36 hours, he slept. He slept!
When we got home, the problems persisted. I was DETERMINED to breast feed, for many reasons. When we left the hospital, my son had gone from 9.1 pounds when he was born to 8.8 after loss of fluid. For the first week, I forced the feedings. I got a shield and I sat there for HOURS trying to get him to latch, trying to keep him awake long enough to eat. Nothing worked. On the 7th day, the community nurse came to check up on baby. When she weighed him, I was mortified. He was 8.8 pounds. He hadn't gained a single thing in one week! I was starving my poor child! That was when I relented and decided I would supplement with formula. But every time I had to give him a bottle after breastfeeding, I felt like a complete failure. Within a few weeks, while pumping immediately after breast feeding to try to increase my production, sitting for hours on end TRYING to fill his belly with my own milk, I was emotionally exhausted. On top of that, for the first few weeks, he had his days and nights mixed up; he slept almost 20 hours a day and was up all night. And since he was too young to "train" (which I ended up not doing anyhow - a story for another time), we couldn't do much about it. Eventually, however, we found some tricks to switch him and he was switched within a week.
During this time, my son cried a lot. And although I wanted to be the martyr-type of mom who did it all by herself without complaint with my husband standing by shaking his head saying, "I don't know how she does it," I wasn't. I couldn't do it all myself, and I didn't want to. I NEEDED help. Problem was, with my son being SO small, my husband was nervous around him; we'd both assumed I would be able to DO more because I KNEW more, but I was just as terrified as he was. We argued a lot. I was always proud of how well he and I got along but the arguing was quickly getting too common. When our son was 4 months old, we had a pretty big fight and one of us walked out of the house (we'd never done that before). That's when I knew we were in over our heads, that this whole parenthood thing was a lot harder than I thought it would be.
My step-dad once said to me when I venting to me mom, "I can only imagine how difficult it must be to raise a child with two selfish parents." My mom yelled at him and, initially, I was hurt. "Selfish" isn't a nice word. But he was right. It wasn't that we were selfish in that we were immature and neglectful, it was that we required a lot of Me Time. We both had our hobbies we enjoyed and neither one of us was willing to give it up. My mom did that - she gave up most of her life for her kids - and I saw how miserable she was sometimes; I didn't want to be like that. I just hadn't realized that it wouldn't be so "easy" for me to be like that. Somehow, it had been naturally ingrained in me to not be the type of mother who loses herself in her children.
Still though, I wanted more kids. It had never entered my mind that I didn't. Before having the baby, my husband and I had agreed that I wouldn't go back to work but I would open a daycare. So, when my son was 9 months old, I started the daycare. I won't go into it now because this will end up being 100 pages long, but let's just say it was a complete fu**ing nightmare. I had one kid who cried, literally, for 2 weeks straight and I remember the first time I had him and he screamed bloody murder at lunch time (my son didn't scream), my son looked at him, startled. I immediately resented that kid. Who was he to come into my house and disrupt MY son? Anyways, I lasted about 8 months before I decided to close it. I couldn't do it anymore, my husband couldn't stand having so many kids in his house and the money just wasn't worth the stress. I felt like a failure though. That was something I'd wanted to do my whole life and then when it happened, I hated it.
When Things Change
With all this "free-time" on my hands (my son napped for 3 hours every afternoon until he was 4), I started to write again. I remembered how much I loved it. I also loved watching movies and stuffing my face. And I loved playing video games with my husband. And I loved having guilt-free time. I was, and still am, determined to provide my son with a safe, educational, enriching, loving environment. I hated the idea of sitting on the couch watching TV while was awake and playing by himself in the corner, I hated the notion of not being able to eat a hot meal, but I wasn't going to sit and eat and ignore my child, I couldn't huddle myself in the corner and read or write (I still have a hard time with that) when he's playing all alone. I wanted to dedicate the time he was awake to him. But, I would be eager for my time to come. I LOVE my son more than anything in the world, but I NEEDED uninterrupted Me Time. And when my Me Time was interrupted, I got resentful, sometimes angry, at whoever it was that took it away from me.
When my son was about 13 months old, my husband (who was in a legal battle with his insurance company over a hit and run and who wanted to wait until some of it was settled financially to talk about having more kids), called me as I was leaving the community play group with my son and said his lawyer told him the suit should be settled by October (it was about August at this point), so we could talk about trying to have another baby. At first, I was super excited. We would have another baby and my two kids would be close in age and it would all be great. But then, as I drove home, I started thinking about things I'd never thought about when we talked about having my son. What if, God forbid, this baby was born handicapped or mentally challenged, did I have the capabilities of handling that? What if it was a screamer? What if it NEVER slept (I was just starting to get my sleep back in order), what if it was sick and we spent the majority of the time going from hospital to hospital, what did that mean for my son? Basically, it came down to, what if the new baby was a handful and in trying to take care of him or her, I neglected my first born? It may sound harsh as I say it out loud, but that was how I felt. Never, however, would I have admitted that to my husband at that point. I was still under the assumption that I wanted more kids. I always wanted kids, it seemed impossible that I wouldn't. Maybe I just needed more time.
My husband was nervous, too. For the same reasons, which is funny. Our baby boy was our world. We both loved him more than we ever thought possible and the idea that we could possibly take something, anything, away from him made us nervous. I wasn't afraid that I wouldn't love the next baby as much, as most parents are, I knew I would, I was worried that the new baby wouldn't be as "special". I didn't like that idea. I loved how special my son's life was to us (freaking out over milestones, taking a gazillions pictures...) and I felt like every child deserved to have that in their life - where they feel appreciated. This was the beginning of the end.
I don't know when or why it came up, but my husband finally grew up the courage to tell me he didn't want to have more kids. The thought of having another child scared him, for many reasons, and he wasn't sure he wanted more. I was utterly devastated. What was I supposed to do? I wanted more kids! I WAS GOING TO have more kids. Who is he to tell me that I'm not? He knew, getting into this marriage, that I wanted at least 2, maybe even 3, kids. I was mad at him for a really long time.
One day, we sat down and he basically said, "I love you and I love our family. I want to be married to you for the rest of my life. I feel like a second baby, who will add more stress financially, emotionally, physically, and whatever else, would kill us. We would be divorced within the year." I said he was being stupid and that he didn't know that for sure. And he said, "are you willing to take that chance?" In the midst of all this, we went on our first family trip, my first trip out of the country. We went to Cuba for a week and it was amazing. I came home with the travel bug. We had just BARELY been able to afford going, it was a huge gamble but we wanted to go. There was NO WAY we would have been able to go had we had a second child. Were we willing to take that opportunity away from our son, from ourselves?
A Marriage In Trouble
I talked a lot with my friends and family. Initially, I was livid. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I thought about leaving him, but I didn't want that for my son, he deserved a family that was together. I was growing a resentment for my husband and I hated it. But as that resentment grew, there was this voice in the back of my mind that, every now and then, would scream. I don't know if I'll be able to sufficiently explain the exact feelings I have when I think about what having a second kid would do to me and my family, but I'll try. One of the biggest reasons was my son.
My whole life, my whole being, was centered around forming this one, perfect little human being. I wanted him to be everything I hadn't been and more. And one of the things I realize now, that I hadn't realized before, was how lucky I was to have a husband whose values so closely shadowed mine; the way we wanted to raise our child was almost identical. We wanted to give him the same values, nurture the same personality characteristics, mold him into the same person. I found myself wondering what would happen if we put another child into the mix. How would we balance that? How would I still have the energy to provide all that to my first born, while at the same time, doing the same thing for the second child? There was no way! I was exhausted already!
So one day, I sat down, and I wrote out a pros and cons list.PROS TO HAVING ANOTHER BABY
Our first born would not be alone. He would have a lifelong friend.
If something were to happen to me and my husband, our son wouldn't be alone (this still impacts me when I really think about it).
It could complete our family.
CONS TO HAVING ANOTHER BABY
we would be forever financially strapped. I don't work enough to get maternity leave and thus we would rely on my husband's salary and we like to live a more....lavish-type of lifestyle (was that selfish? Probably, but what was how we felt).
we would have to save up for two college tuition.
there was a potential for having to forfeit our son playing hockey and soccer and all the other sports he loves because they're stupid expensive and what if the second child wanted to do them to?
we would have to forfeit our yearly trips thus forfeiting the ability to allow our son to experience other cultures and the world around him.
would we be able to deliver the same care and dedication in raising another child just like our son and would we have the energy to continue giving our son (emotionally) what we have been giving him?
Our son was used to being the center of everyone's world (he is our first child and the only grandson on 3 out of 4 sides - our parents are both divorced).
as husband and wife, would we be able to handle the stress? And this was one of the biggest ones - with my husband working full time and still barely making ends meet (if at all with another child), and me at home with two small children (when only one can sometimes make me completely bonkers) would we still be able to lovingly support one another or would be constantly be at each others' throats? Would our marriage survive a second child?
A Long History of Love
My husband and I have been together for 12 years this summer. We have been through EVERYTHING (and I mean everything). We were friends for two years before we started dating, during which time I was dating someone who wasn't very nice to me (nor was I to him) and my husband was living an undesirable lifestyle (as was I). When we finally started dating, our honeymoon period lasted roughly 2.5 days before were constantly fighting. We broke up twice in two years. I got pregnant at 19, but didn't go to term. After that, we finally realized we needed to wake up and get our shit together and so we did - together. We left everything and everyone we knew behind and started fresh. For a long time, it was just him and I. We moved out into a tiny, little apartment while he went to school and I worked a shit retail job and then he got a government job and I went back to school. We both worked on our emotional well-being (my anxiety and depression, among other things), and supported each other through it.
When I was 24, I got pregnant again and again, didn't make it to full term. As we were planning for the baby (before we lost it), we signed a lease for a three bedroom house which we would move into on November 1 (I found out I was pregnant in September), and we scrambled and planned a wedding for November 7th. On October 13th, I miscarried. Still though, we carried on. We moved into our new home, and got married a week later (and might I add, during this time, I was in my second year of college). I went into full-blown breakdown mode. I was a mess. But he was there for me. He was my shoulder, my confident, my therapist. And I've been there for him through similar issues, as well. Was I really willing to give all that up because of some "life plan" I made for myself when I was 5 years old? (Please refer to above when I mentioned how I feel about plans being changed). Was I willing to risk everything we had - our home, our lifestyle, our child, our marriage because I felt like I needed something I wasn't even really sure I wanted? I was just starting to get my life back in order (during this time, I had started working again at a job I LOVED), I was finding my independence (something I'd NEVER had up until this point), I was growing into my own person, and I was a good mom. Was I 100% certain I could still be that mom when I'm tired and irritated and lacking Me Time? I couldn't guarantee it, no.
At some point, we decided to put it on the back burner. We weren't saying no, we were just saying Not Now. We would re-visit when the time came. And throughout the years, I did re-visit. Whenever I saw a cute baby or watched a movie where someone had given birth, I would feel that pull. Then I would remind myself that it wasn't just a baby, it would turn into a child and then a teenager. I would sometimes ask my husband if he was ready to talk about it and it would always turn into a fight. I came to realize there would probably never be a time that he would be ready. And secretly, as juvenile as this sounds, I always had the thought that if it were to happen by accident (since it had twice before), we would deal with it and that would be the end of the conversation.
The Ultimate Decision
Well, on February 5th, 2016, precisely one day before leaving on our now-yearly trip, this time to Mexico, I found out I was pregnant. About 5 weeks (clearly birth control pills are not working for me). I shook the whole way home from the doctor. I was terrified to tell my husband, and I was terrified about what this meant. I told him and as I told him, I burst into tears. He was so upset, he just fell into the fetal position. For hours I cried. He thought I was crying because of the way he was reacting and it didn't occur to me that he didn't know why I was so upset. He came to me after a little while and apologized for the way he reacted. I told him I didn't care. When he asked me why I was so upset, I said, "I can't do it again." The idea of middle-of-the-night wakings, diaper changes, constant crying, an interruption in our current routine, our inability to have the freedom we JUST got back, was so completely daunting it almost crippled me.Ultimately, we agreed we would take the week in Mexico and pretend nothing happened and we would revisit when we got home. At some point during the trip, I secretly decided that I was OK with it and I would deal with whatever came alone. On the second last day before we came home, I started getting really sick (my body doesn't like being pregnant and I'm always extremely sick). But this was brutal.
There were days where I couldn't even get out of bed. I slept for like 4 days straight. In the end, I lost it. And although I spent a few days crying afterwards, I knew it was the right thing for us. This may upset people who have spent years trying to get pregnant and here I am basically relieved that I didn't end up carrying it to term (and believe I understand - when I miscarried the second time, my sister in law was pregnant too, she had her baby - I didn't, so I get it). But the thought of changing what we have, this perfect little cohesive unit scared the shit out of me. I love what we have and I wouldn't change it for the world. In the end, I know that the decision I made (and God helped show me) to choose myself, my marriage, and my son's life, molding him into one almost-perfect little human being, was the right one. I had ultimately made the decision on my own and not because I was forced to. I know that now. And yes, I still have the pull sometimes, and I still feel guilty about forcing my son to be an only child (although I'm sure, based on the type of person he is, he would much rather be an only child), but ultimately, this decision was mine and it was the right one.
And so for anyone who is struggling through having to decide whether they want to follow their "life plan" or admit to the notion that they may not be the parents they thought they would be, this is dedicated to you and I hope that once you make your decision, you are somehow, one day, able to make peace with it. You only have one life, so value it and choose what is important and not what you think you need for whatever reason it is that you think you need it.
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