My 3-year-old is
napping and my 6-year-old is in school and I’m thinking of another baby again.
These “third baby” thoughts rarely come when the boys are fighting or I’m woken
up in the middle of the night by someone who needs a drink or fell out of bed.
The thoughts of baby number three come when the house is quiet; when Jacob puts
his arm around his little brother and kisses him; when Liam tells me he loves
me “this much” and holds out his chubby little arms just as far as he can. My
third baby thoughts come during those times that it seems that my boys are
growing so fast I can almost see their pants getting shorter as they stand in
front of me. They come when I pick up Jacob from school and I look at an 8th
grader towering over his mother and realize that, God-willing, my son will
stand taller than me in fewer years than I would have believed possible when I
held him as a tiny newborn.
When
my husband Bill and I got married, we had not talked about what size our family
would be. My surprise pregnancy with Jacob happened before we could get to the
family-size discussion, and once we had Jacob, it never occurred to me that we
would have any fewer or more than two babies. Bill and I each have one sister
and having two children seemed natural—a given almost. When Liam was a baby, I
would look at other moms I knew with three or four, and in one case, five
children, and not understand what drove people to have more than two children.
To me, two children were children enough.
One child seemed like a lonely
idea, but three or more meant that parents played zone defense rather than
man-to-man. With baby Liam and preschooler Jacob, I saw no need to make more
work for ourselves.
Something
changed within me as Liam approached his third birthday and I’m still not sure
what it is. We went to the beach with some friends, and I had so much fun with
my wet, slippery boys, that I began to think that I didn’t want this pudgy,
innocent stage to end so soon. I splashed Liam in the water and watched Jacob
practicing his very shaky front crawl and wanted the day to last forever. The
boys were just independent enough to walk and play in the water without a
constant hand from me, yet they delighted in my “motorboat” rides and grabbed
my hand as they jumped off the pier. Suddenly, it seemed that in just a whisper
of time passing, they would be floating away into the deeper water. And while I
didn’t want to prevent them from growing up, it occurred to me that I could
have another one. That I was allowed to have another one. That just
because I never wanted a third before didn’t mean I couldn’t change my mind. I
had never before stretched my mind around the idea of a third bed, a third car
seat—or most exciting, a first pink dress-- and letting my imagination go to a
future I had never before considered was exhilarating.
My
husband Bill understands these baby-longings of mine, and is especially attuned
to the fact that a part of the baby longing, might be, more specifically, baby girl-longings.
But when Bill looks at the possibility of another child for us, he sees the
thousands of U.S. children languishing in foster care, waiting for a mom or a
dad to call their own. He believes one of these children may be our first
responsibility as a family. Why make our own when there are others that need
our care?
And
I have no argument. Our family is healthy and happy and whole. Bill is a
teacher; I have a background in education as well, and am home with our
children almost full-time. As far as I can tell, our marriage is more stable
than most. Our children are well-behaved; they seem well-adjusted and secure.
We have enough money and enough room. If there is any home that a foster child
would feel welcome, ours would be one. Part of our wedding vows included a
promise to always reach out to others, and we both recognize there would be no
greater way to reach out than to welcome an abandoned or abused child into our
family.
And
yet.
That’s
all I can say. The yets add up in my mind. And yet I’d love to see a daughter
who has my hair or my laugh. And I’m not sure I want to complicate our lives
with the problems that foster care could bring. And I feel like we have one
life to live and it’s seeming shorter by the day, and if I even think for a
second I want to have a third child, we should. And I just think it would be
exciting to see what one more combination of Bill and Annemarie would be, so
happy we are with the first two.
But
if I really felt that strongly to have another one, I could pull Bill to my
side quickly and easily. If I felt a “YES I DO,” instead of a “I think I
might,” he would jump in with few questions. But I don’t have that certainty.
Each time I see a foster care case in the headlines, I can’t help but think,
“We could do that,” and know there would be less chance we would if we have
another of our own. And sometimes I’m just not sure I want one more little
person around the house—biological child or not. When the boys argue; when the
laundry piles up; when I think that another baby would put my career on hold
even longer, I have little desire for one more. I don’t look longingly at
pregnant women-- while I appreciated the
miracle of childbirth, I didn’t particularly enjoy being pregnant. Neither do I
envy my friend down the street who has a newborn. With 2:00 a.m. feedings
several years in the past, and diapers safely packed away, sometimes I have
little desire to go back to square one. I had both children before I was 30,
ahead of many of my friends. In doing so I exchanged the freedom of my twenties
for the responsibilities of parenthood. I don’t have any regrets, but now, with
freedom coming back in small tastes—a night out here, a weekend away there, do
I want to give up my mid-thirties as well?
I
don’t think I do. But I’m not completely sure. And that’s the problem, because
each month that slips away is one month more in age-difference between our boys
and the new baby. I can’t help but wondering if there’s a little girl in our
future. I can’t help but wonder what the 40-year-old me would say to the
33-year-old me that writes right now. Would she say go for it because she loves
having a six-year-old along with her preteen and teenager, or would she say
that the two boys are enough and she has embraced this new stage of ‘big kid’
parenting? And maybe more importantly than what I would say 7 years down the
road is what I would say in 15 years, when both boys are in college and the
“baby” would just be starting high school, or in 25 years, when this yet unborn
child and I might pick out her wedding dress together.
In
spite of many happy visions of what this baby might mean to me later, though,
the idea of becoming pregnant today fills me with equal parts of trepidation
and joy. I am so happy with our family as it stands. I have this feeling that
we may be complete. And as I ponder this question yet one more time, I feel
that I have almost answered it. While I’m not sure if I’m called to a third
baby, I feel like I need to examine the idea carefully. I need to cradle the
idea of a baby. Hold the idea. Nurture the idea. And maybe allow that idea to
become a reality. Or possibly let that idea go, knowing that I took a good,
long look at it. I believe God speaks through
the desires of our hearts. I need to stop long enough to listen to what
my desires are. My prayer is that I might listen closely enough.
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