I’ve been trying to write this blog for weeks, months, and started and stalled several times. Maybe because I think once I’ve written it I’ll change my mind. Maybe because I think it’s too personal. Maybe because I think it makes me seem selfish, or nuts, or both. But all of my reasons for trying for another baby now (flexible work schedule, children who will be close in age, my advancing age) just don’t seem like enough.
My husband and I both want more children. Eventually. I don’t think of our family as complete with just our daughter, though the idea that she’s “just” anything is crazy. She’s everything. And maybe that’s why the idea of bringing another little being into the world terrifies me, why when I think of another baby I just think of Miss E as a baby, and want to be with her again in all of her little moments. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore her at this age. She laughs in all of the right places when we read a story together. She rocks pigtails. She tells me which foods she wants to eat, and is getting a whole lot better about not just throwing the ones she doesn’t. But would I cuddle her sweet newborn self again? In a heartbeat. In half a heartbeat.
I’m not fretting about sleep or money or space (though I probably ought to be), only this: am I ready to love another person? Explosive, fall to pieces, all consuming love? I felt similarly unsure and scared just before she was born, but this is different, bigger, wilder, because now I know just how much just one little person can change me.
Maybe I’ll never want another baby quite as much I wanted Miss E, or maybe I will but it just won’t feel the same. Your first baby is always your first baby, and that thrill of expectation, at least for me, doesn’t seem like it could be the same when you aren’t just starting a family, but growing it.