Everyone is pregnant. Bold statement, I know, but they are. “But, I’m not pregnant!,” you may say. And if you do, you and I are the only ones, my friend. The only ones.
There’s something about pregnancy that is catching. It causes baby fever in folks like me and, henceforth, everyone I see is pregnant. Everything I read is about pregnancy or newborns. All of a sudden, my entire family begins asking and hinting at “giving the boy someone to play with…” (apparently, a friend so doesn’t count) because baby fever is airborne.
Soon after a darling friend of mine gave birth to her newest, I went on an old video, old picture bender. I went through every video and picture I had of the boy from birth forward. I oogled and swooned. I got teary and kissed him so many times he took off with a, “Buhsh teef, mommy…” He was so over it, he’d rather brush his teeth than sustain another kiss, sigh and squeeze from me. Of course, the simple fact that he could talk, walk and, you know, breathe without me made me chase after him and squeeze him more.
Naturally, the unthinkable began to be thought. What about having another baby? Someone for the boy to play with, to learn with, to…whatever…with (I’m an only child, I have no idea what you multi-spawn do with each other but, in my head, it was all very Normal Rockwell-y). I started actively missing the belly movement, the newborn smell, the first smile, the not horribly stank ass poo.
Through all this, my thoughts kept going to the Boy, and I realized, I don’t know that I necessarily want another as much as I want to relive baby-dom with the little guy I already have. It absolutely could all harken back to the only child thing. The fact that I can’t imagine loving anyone in addition to the boy. That the idea of the boy sharing my time with anyone makes me feel unimaginable levels of guilt. That having another would unmistakably make him understand that he is not the only center of the universe which, in and of itself, is a good thing (as witnessed by the recent loss of friendship with someone who could not grasp that idea) but is still a little saddening to me. Because my boy? He deserves all of everything I have to give. I do realize my level of insanity, in case you were wondering.
It didn’t help to go back and read the horri-freaking-fying tumultuous relationship I had with my pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding. The idea of another pregnancy sent off giant, flaming red flags in my head. Flags held by tiny pregnant me’s screaming, “WTF IS YOUR PROBLEM?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR SHIT?!” Because, Lord knows, I couldn’t get through all that crap again with a toddler on hand. I’m afraid I’d have to give the boy to my parents for longer than an hour, which would lead to a level of ridiculously placed guilt I’m just not sure I’m willing to deal with. Funny thing is, my pregnancy and subsequent baby-rearing was absurdly easy compared to some of my friends’ who are pregnant as we speak. My fear of another reasonably uneventful pregnancy is almost laughable and, surprise, another source of guilt.
What it comes down to is that I’m just not yet sold on the second kid thing. Right now, there are too many reasons to say no. We want a better house, we want to be more financially stable, and, most importantly, we want the boy to have the best we can give him. It’s no secret that the boy can be overwhelming sometimes and I’m not entirely sure if that is my problem or his. I wonder if he’s really a needy child, or just a normal kid that I’m just not good at keeping up with. If the latter is the case, then keeping up with two will do neither of them any favors. Which leads to, you guessed it, guilt. Guilt that I can’t keep up with my boy, guilt that I may be depriving him of a sibling because of my own issues, guilt that I may not be doing what’s best for him, whether or not I have another.
Guilt is one of the few things I retained of my Catholic self. That, my love of santos and inability to not cross myself at the sight of a Catholic church or pure evil. You know, like liquor stores and moms with more than one child*. Ave Maria Purisima!
*I kid because I am jealous…skank.
A bit over 20 inches long, your baby has continued to grow and may now weigh almost 8 pounds. As cozy as he is, your baby can’t stay inside you forever. For your baby’s safety, your practitioner will talk with you about inducing labor if your baby isn’t born in the next week — earlier if there are any problems. Most practitioners won’t let you wait more than two weeks past your due date to give birth because it puts you and your baby at increased risk for complications. About 5 to 6 percent of women have prolonged pregnancies that extend three or more weeks beyond their estimated due dates. Babies born at 42 weeks and beyond can have dry parchment-like skin and are often overweight. Waiting that long to deliver also increases your chance of developing an infection in your uterus that could be dangerous for your baby or of having a stillbirth. What’s more, your labor is more likely to be prolonged or stalled, both you and your baby have an increased risk of injury during a vaginal delivery, and you double your chances of needing a c-section
