I don’t want to want another child.
My husband and I have a beautiful girl and boy. We look like the bicycling family on a prescription medication commercial. We’ve achieved the perfect boy to girl ratio in our home. A third pregnancy would cause us to rearrange bedrooms, car seats, and our entire lives.
But the overwhelming desire to have a third child just won’t leave me be. I can’t pass a stroller without looking in. I’ve even started watching A Baby Story again.
I want to be pregnant, but I don’t look forward to another pregnancy.
Through both of my pregnancies, I suffered from preeclampsia, chronic nausea, and psychotic hormonal episodes when Chic-Fil-A was closed on Sunday and all I craved was some freaking poultry and waffle fries.
I wasn’t a beautiful and glowing pregnant woman, either. My once soft, smooth skin became riddled with hormonal acne that caused me to resemble Pizza the Hutt from Spaceballs. My waistline expanded like a sumo wrestler on a sugar IV.
I developed a wingspan; the top of my arms actually looked like the anatomy of a Falcon. I was also chronically fatigued and had more baggage than Samsonite under my eyes on any given day.
But the moment that both of my children were born made it all worth it.
The acne went away, my hormones leveled out, and my energy somehow resurfaced as I washed poop from crib sheets and soothed colicky babies while watching the sun rise.
So my husband and I agreed not to dwell on the unattractive witch that would grace our home for nine months, and we decided to start trying. I was confident that after a margarita or two, I’d be all good and knocked up with baby number three.
Conceiving children has never been a difficult task for me. My daughter is a souvenir from our honeymoon to Nassau. Our son was the best surprise I’ve received since passing biology in the 9th grade.
It seemed that my husband and I didn’t even have to think about having a baby to have one.
There was never a need to do disgustingly weird things like chart mucous consistency or Google terms like “BD” and “TWW” when TTC message board terms produced mass confusion in my simple little mind. There was never a need to ask my DH what “DH” meant and if he was mine. (DH = dear husband.)
But we’ve been doing the “BD” (baby dance) more months than I care to think about. Oh, Lord. Do we have to do that again? Do I have to pee on another stick? I pee on sticks every week, whether they are OPK tests or pregnancy tests. I have a calendar that’s marked with every color in the Skittles bag. I know what luteal phase means.
Nothing but six bucks worth of urine-soaked plastic in the trash can every month.
I’ve heard every cliché imaginable. If I stop stressing about it, it will happen. Everything happens in God’s perfect timing.
I’m not 35 yet, so a few negative months are no big deal. Most women conceive within a year. The Enquirer said Betsy McBabymaker was 73 and had a healthy bundle of joy because she ate guava berries and drank Sprite every morning. Shut up and be patient. It’ll happen. Just shut up. Shut up.
I personally know people that have struggled with infertility for years. I’ve held the phone to my ear as a good friend cried over the line that the stick on the bathroom counter had announced another “BFN” — the 15th negative, the 30th negative, the 55th negative.
That sobbing conversation and the women on the message boards with stories about failed IVF, frustration, sadness, longing, and grief makes me feel incredibly guilty when I cry at another useless egg. I’ve only been disappointed for ten months, not ten years.
I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m too impatient. It’ll happen. In God’s time. Stop stressing. It’ll happen. Just shut up. Shut up. It’ll happen.
And I hope it will.
Susannah B. Lewis is an author, blogger and podcaster. Her videos and articles have been featured in Reader’s Digest, US Weekly, Yahoo!, Huffington Post, Unilad, The Weather Channel, and more. Follow Susannah on her Facebook page Whoa Susannah.
This article was originally published at Whoa! Susannah. Reprinted with permission from the author.