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.

What-ifs, Worry and Windows

I’m currently reading A Map of the World, by Jane Hamilton.  I’m nearly 100 pages in and am not sure I’ll be able to continue (I’ll explain in a moment).  The premise so far is both intriguing and horrifying: A woman is watching her friend’s children and one of them (a two-year old) drowns in her pond.

The reader in me wants to continue to see what the aftershocks of such an event are and how the protagonist deals with them.  The writer in me is increasingly annoyed with the author’s writing style, in particular her use of dialogue.  At times I can barely stand it, the way the characters speak to one another, the way they always address each other by name (think about it, how often to you address the person sitting across from you by name?).  Suffice it to say, I’m hanging in for now. 

Reading frustrations aside, the mother in me is getting put through the wringer.  What a gut-wrenching ordeal this woman is going through.  When it came to the scene of the little girl’s funeral I had to put the book down.  I was in a waiting room and could barely keep myself from crying.  No one needs to see that.

Beyond its entertainment purposes, the book has led me to consider regret, guilt and worry.  I’ve realized that in many ways these are hallmark emotions when it comes to parenting.  Well, at least the dark hallmark emotions.

Growing up it exasperated me how much my mom worried.  She was, and still is, a huge worrywart.  I don’t know how many times I said to her, “Mom, I’ll be FINE.”  To me, it seemed a huge waste of time and energy to worry about things that would almost certainly never happen.  I’d come home from doing whatever it was she was worrying about and say, “See?  I’m fine.”

Could something have gone wrong?  Sure.  Did her worrying keep me safe?  No.  Had something happened is there anything she could have done about it?  No.

But, I know with certainty that if something bad had happened, she would have been racked with guilt and regret.  These emotions seem to go hand-in-hand, traveling together at all times.

Now that I’m a parent, I have a new appreciation for what my mom (and dad) were going through every time we set foot outside the house without them.  Now I think to myself, “How did they let us leave the house?”  Because when I think about either of my kids leaving and going off to do their own thing, on their own or with friends, I nearly have a panic attack.  Just thinking about it.  No one’s going anywhere yet, and already I’m freaking out. 

I also find myself freaking out over the “what-if” scenarios.  Right now my biggest worry-related obsession is our second story windows.  When we looked at the house last fall all I saw were huge windows in every room letting in all kinds of natural light.  In Michigan this is important as the winter months are dreary and gray, and, after living in California for nearly nine years I am used to sunshine nearly every day.  Yes! I thought to myself, these windows are amazing!

It’s worth noting that our house is over 100 years old and our windows have these annoying “pop in” screens.  In my nightmare the kids are a little older, playing in the room, I leave the room to grab a Kleenex (or whatever) and when I come back one of them has pushed out a screen and tumbled two stories to the ground below. 

I hate that I even think about this.  It makes me feel ill every time I do. 

So, naturally, I am paranoid about letting Eli play in his room with the windows open.  My husband is in the process of building screens for all the windows, but I’m still not satisfied that they’ll be secure enough, so now I’m on the hunt for some kind of window guard.

Regardless, I never would have thought of any of this before having kids.  I wouldn’t have imagined someone falling out a window.  I wouldn’t allow myself these kinds of panic-inducing indulgences.

But that’s what you do.  You worry about things that may or (more likely) may not be a true hazard.

As for regret, I have always stood by the belief that there are no regrets, only mistakes you learn from.  In theory this makes sense, but in practice it’s a whole other story. 

So the book is a challenge to me.  Of course what happens is a mistake, the woman would never intentionally let a small child wander out of her house and down to the pond.  But how could you not be consumed by guilt and regret?  I wonder how, if something so disastrous happened to me, would I even be able to forgive myself? 

Thankfully my challenges as a parent are less harrowing, but I am thankful for the food for thought, the what-if-something-like-this-happened-to-me opportunity that reading provides.  At the end of the night I can close the book and go to sleep, distracted from my window obsession.   

I can worry about it tomorrow.