It's Just Stuff

Except when it’s not.  A few weeks back one of my best friends mentioned she was going to have a yard sale.  Did I want to bring some stuff over to sell?

The baby stuff has been piling up in our attic since we moved in.  I’ve passed some stuff along here and there, but otherwise have been reluctant to unload the bulk of it so far.  I chose to look at the yard sale as motivation to free up space and get over what’s left of my lingering sadness over not having any more babies. 

I have to point out that I’m not a pack rat.  After moving countless times growing up I am very accustomed to getting rid of, well, pretty much everything.  There are a few items that have made it through the many moves, but for the most part I do not get sentimental over “stuff.”

That is, until I had kids.  I don’t know what the hell happens in your body after having children but I transformed from someone who rarely cried at movies, someone who didn’t dissolve into teary-eyed nostalgia over anything, really … into someone that can barely keep it together looking at an outfit Eli wore as a baby, or at a maternity t-shirt I wore, or at photos of either of the kids right after they were born, or some dumb-ass commercial that’s supposed to make you laugh.

Just this morning I went into Sophie’s room and saw that Eli had set the couch out from her little dollhouse and set the Mama and Papa bear together on the couch.  It was so cute I nearly started bawling when I looked at it.  Seriously?  What is wrong with me?

So it shouldn’t have surprised me that I would have a difficult time getting rid of things.  No, that’s not true.  I would say that 90% of the stuff was easy to part with.  But that other 10%...

I have a bin of clothes/shoes/etc. containing baby things that I won’t get rid of.  I’ve always known I would do that.  A couple outfits and the like to show the kids when they get older, to pass along to them if they have kids (or if they don’t).  That stuff makes sense to me. 

But then there are my maternity clothes.  Most of them I cannot get rid of fast enough.  Tried as I might to find maternity clothes that were flattering (an oxymoron if there ever was one) or that were at least “me” was more challenging that I had anticipated.  As a result, I hated at least half my maternity clothes with a passion. 

However, as I sorted through the box of clothes there were a few items I just couldn’t put in the “sell” pile.  My favorite jeans.  The t-shirt I wore when Vinny photographed me, two days before I went into labor with Eli.  The tank top that kept me from having a heat stroke during the summer months.  The clothes that kept me feeling like myself, the clothes I was so happy to be pregnant in.  The clothes that remind me of the sheer joy of being pregnant, remembering what it was like to carry both of my children around in my belly. 

Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago that I was pregnant.  It’s hard to believe it’s only been a little over a year. 

I can’t let go of the memories those clothes stir up, yet.  They are still too near and dear to my heart. 

So even though my upbringing equipped me with a “you don’t need that” attitude that I have carried into adulthood, there are moments when I can’t part with “things.” 

I’m okay with this.  I’m sure as time passes it will be easier to part with more of this stuff.  Maybe not.  Maybe there will always be a special box in the attic, just for me.  So I can sneak up there once in awhile and remember how happy I was growing my children.  So I can marvel over how little my babies were when they fit into those tiny onesies (okay, who am I kidding… neither of my children were ever tiny, but they were still newborns). 

Sometimes, we need “things” to stir memories, to take us back to a time we are happy to re-live, to remind us of the distances we’ve come.  As time propels us forward, pulls us further away from these treasured memories, it’s nice to have something as simple as a t-shirt to pull me back.

The "V" Word

And no, I’m not talking vagina.  Vasectomy.  If you’re a guy, you’re probably wincing in imagined pain right now, and I feel you.  If you’re a woman that’s been through childbirth you’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “Hell yes.  Let him have a taste of the pain…” 

But I digress.

Vinny opted for this procedure since we are done having kids.  At least, we say we’re done having kids.  Vinny has always said we’ll have two and that’s it.  I’ve always said we’d take it on a case-by-case basis.  I never had a specific number of children in mind.  What if I had a baby and then decided I didn’t love being a mom as much as I thought I would, or if the baby was particularly demanding, or we didn’t have the money, or…  It never seemed right to put any kind of parameters on the potential size of our family.

Vinny’s stance has never changed.  As for me… it’s not as simple.

Almost immediately after Sophie’s birth I said, “I’m done.”  My children seem to have a harrowing (to me) way of arriving into this world, and there is a part of me that does not want to press my luck.  We’ve all come through unscathed so far and I am thankful each and every day that Eli, Sophie and myself came through those experiences in good health.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the part of me that longs to be younger and richer so we could have more kids.  At this point we’re comfortable with two so it seems a bit impractical to push things that way. 

And then there’s the matter of actually caring for these children.  They’re exhausting.  I already feel guilt on some days because I rarely get to spend any one-on-one time with each child and feel as though my attention is usually in ten different places.  I’ve had several people say to me, “After two kids it doesn’t matter, it’s all really the same,” but I can’t get behind that statement. 

When I think of my attention being divided further by another child I wonder how I would actually do it.  Check that.  I know I could do it, but whether or not I would do it happily is another question.

So there are all these reasons not to have another child.  And they are good, solid reasons.  To be honest, there is no further justification needed beyond Vinny not wanting more children because, really, we both need to be on board for a decision of that magnitude.

And yet…

When I think about not having that moment of learning I am pregnant again, I get sad.

When I think about not feeling a little babe kick/move/punch/roll around in my belly again, I get sad.

When I look at my maternity clothes and remember being pregnant with Eli and Sophie, I get sad (and nostalgic).

When I think about how awesome our kids are, how good we are at making kick-ass babies, and then realize we aren’t going to do it again, I get really, really sad.

For some crazy reason I like being pregnant and having babies.  Nevermind the insomnia, morning sickness, insane heartburn, carpal tunnel, massive weight gain, general aches and pains, etc.  I love it.  And I have to add that I do have easy pregnancies, despite those ailments.  Really.  I am lucky.

In spite of all these things I know the best decision for us is to not have more babies. 

It doesn’t mean I still can’t be sad about it.

I never anticipated being the one leaving the urologist’s office in tears (and for those of you that know Vinny, you will appreciate that statement to the fullest ... and for the record he did fine).  But there you go.  As we drove home from Vinny’s procedure last week I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face.  It was a bittersweet moment for both of us.  Then Vinny managed to lighten it with a joke: “I’m not sure if I just did that because I don’t want more kids, or because of the ones we already have.” 

It didn’t stop my tears, but it did put a smile on my face.