My man and I are in the throes of deciding whether we should have another child. At three kids we’re hardly even considered a brood, but my husband is adamant that we’ve reached our emotional and physical capacity in the area of parenting.
And I’m just baby hungry.
I want to be pregnant. I want to give birth. I want to have another round head at my bosom, I want to smell that unplaceable but definite sweet baby smell, I want to wake up in the middle of the night and bond with a new little person. (Okay, not really on the waking up part. But I’ll relinquish my sleep to have more of what I remember: snuggly, warm goodness in a knitty, blankety bundle.)
My husband says it’s too hard.
And I fear that to mean he won’t help. At all. I don’t want to have a baby by myself, ladies. I want a partner in the trenches, I want him to look longingly over the side of the crib at a sleeping angel with tears in his eyes while he squeezes my hand.
(Okay, he’s never done that.)
I’m not ratting him out. He is an amazing husband and father. He just doesn’t get the under two set. Their sweet smell does nothing to sway his heart, their cheeks don’t lure his lips for nibbles, his hands don’t get itchy when he sees a baby in the next row over at church.
In other words, he’s impervious to the torture I go through.
I get his reticence. We are finally at a point of seeming equilibrium. (If equilibrium means that we can just tell our youngest to go to bed at night and in the morning, turn the t.v. on for herself.) We aren’t required much as far as the physical toils go at this point in parenting. We just sort of show up and parcel out Honey Nut Cheerios. And so on most days it just seems really easy.
Except for when it’s hard. Which it is. It always is.
“We already have three kids,” he says, “and I think we should go for quality parenting over quantity of kids.” And then: “You’re never going to feel done. You’re always going to want another one.”
I don’t think so. But could he be right?
For now something nags at my soul. And it’s an unsettled sort of feeling that suggests I don’t know what to do next. It’s a scared feeling that finds me on my knees in tears. It’s a desire to just KNOW what to do—what our next step should be. And can it please just appear as a bright sign in pop-up bubble fashion, above my head (light bulb epiphany!) that spells it out: “BABY” or “no baby.”
I know the inspiration is personal, I know that everyone has their own reasons for being done or trying for just one more. But how did you know you were supposed to go for it?
And what think you of the logical notion: quality over quantity? Is it possible to have too many kids? Too few?