So lately I’ve been thinking a
lot about my uterus.
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For most of my life I have taken
my uterus for granted and haven’t thought about it much at all. During my two
pregnancies I thought about it A LOT, of course, but once my babies joined us
on this side of my cervix, I kind of
forgot about it again. But now I feel bad, like I haven’t
appreciated it enough. It grew two healthy babies and helped usher them into
this world just as it should. (And one of those babies was 9 pounds, 10 ounces and
almost two weeks late—that’s above and beyond the call of duty, uterus-wise.)
If uterus-having were an Olympic sport, I’d at least qualify for the finals, I
think. (No medal, though—those would go to the Super Uteruses, like the ones in
surrogate mothers and Michelle Duggar.)
So why am I now suddenly all, “How
great is my uterus?”
See, I had a birthday recently.
The First Annual Celebration of My 39th Birthday, to be
precise. And as the big 4-0 looms
ever larger, I can’t help but wonder if my uterus’s time is up.
If it’s not just a dead womb
walking.
I have always said that I want
to be done having kids by age 40. I’m not sure why I drew the line at 40—I
guess it was all the talk about how your fertility decreases around then, at
the same time that your chances of having problems with your pregnancy
increase. For whatever reason, for me and many of my friends who put off having
kids until our 30s, 40 is the big cutoff date. Last call at the fertility
saloon, if you will.
Well, 40 is just one year away. And
if you do the math, given a nine-month pregnancy (HA!), that means we have just
3 more months to decide if I’m retiring the old uterus or calling it back into
baby-making action one last time.
And I just don’t know.
There are some days when I KNOW,
unequivocally, that my two darling boys are enough for me. It’s not just the
days when they fight like rabid badgers, though that certainly helps. But it’s
also the days when they are just wonderful; when we are lying in a heap on the
couch reading a book together, or sitting on the floor at the airport eating a
McDonald’s picnic and watching planes take off as we wait out a 2-hour delay.
And I think, “How can I ask for more than this? Why rock this happy little
boat?”
But, then… Then I remember being
pregnant. Feeling those first kicks and hiccups and even the right hooks to the
bladder. Somehow the balloon ankles, sciatica, and crippling nighttime carpal
tunnel pain are forgotten. Instead I think about that delicious anticipation
that comes before you meet your newest little one, the nine months of wondering
what he or she will be like, and then the slow process of getting to know the
precious little human you helped create.
(If a mom with a new baby
happens to walk by as I’m having all these thoughts, there’s a good chance my
ovaries will just explode.)
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| Ovaries exploding in 3, 2, 1... |
It doesn’t help that every time
I turn around or log onto facebook someone in my real or online life is
announcing their third pregnancy. I can’t even read my favorite celebrity
gossip magazine without hearing about Jennifer Garner’s new (third) baby or
Tori Spelling getting pregnant just one month after her second baby with her
current husband was born. (By the way, that’s a whole ‘nother blog post, am I
right? ONE MONTH? We all know what that means, and that is completely cray
cray. Good lord, give your poor lady parts a break, Tori!)
Of course, everyone assumes that
if we tried for a third, I’d want a girl. And sure, there are times when I
think, “Wow, everyone in this family farts
a whole lot,” and then I think it might be nice to have a daughter to hide in
the corner with, fanning ourselves and spraying Febreze at anyone who gets
close. And, I have to admit I kind of want to see what would happen if my
husband ever had to deal with little-girl hair. THAT would make for some
entertaining facebook photos, I’m sure.
But truthfully, when I think
about having another child, I don’t secretly wish for a certain gender. I just
think about holding a squishy little newborn and smelling his or her wonderful
little head. (What is it about newborns’ heads that make them smell so good?) I
think about another round of first smiles, first steps, first words. I think
about the amazing, addictive, indescribable feeling of love I have for my sons.
But still, I just don’t know.
I wish that the decision to have
a third child were as cut-and-dried as the decision to have a first or second.
With our first baby, the question my husband and I had was relatively easy to
answer: Did we want kids or not? The answer was yes, the timing was right, so
we moved on to the fun part. Sure we were a little scared and not entirely sure
what to expect from parenthood, but we forged ahead anyway. The decision to
have a second child was also easy. We asked ourselves, “Do we want our child to have a
sibling?” The answer again was yes, and though it was a little more difficult
to find time for the fun part with a toddler in the house, we managed to make
it happen.
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| It's Ryan Gosling holding a baby. *Drool* |
But, a third? Not so easy. Right
now, we are so lucky. My two boys are healthy. They are active, happy, little
beasts who, sure, tend to break things and whine a lot and refuse to eat most
vegetables, but who also, for the most part, get along with others and follow
most social norms (you know, just not the ones involving nudity). They are by no means perfect, but they are perfect for US.
How do I know if we are meant to have another?
So. My husband and I have some
thinking to do in the next month or so. There’s a lot to consider—even more
than what I’ve laid out here. My uterus is looking for answers, and I can’t
keep her waiting much longer. (Uteruses are female, right? It would be weird otherwise,
I think.)
In the meantime, I’d love to
hear from you—how did you know when you were done having children? And how did
you know how many you wanted to have?
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