Broody

It’s not what you think.

Recently, I read a blog post by one of my gradaute school writing aquaintances (that’s you, anneshanestadick@substack.com). She and her husband have three boys, a long history of miscarriages, and differing views on what a complete family looks like. I get that. Her husband wants to be done, but she’s game to try a little bit longer. And her argument is pursuasive. It sounds like they’ll try again and see what happens. I wish her, and her family, health and happiness.

Meanwhile, my one-and-only wombmate is in the throes of the newborn stage. Yes, as “a mother of advanced maternal age.” (Doctors don’t hold back.) Baby A is two months old, a spitting image of her father, and strong as a strong thing. My sister had a hard time with the baby blues stage (who doesn’t?!), but has recovered well. She laments her lack of breastmilk production, compounded by a recent yeast infection, but is totally okay with formula. Even though she intellectually knows a fed baby is a happy baby, she still struggles with the idea that a woman’s body should be able to produce milk for its offspring. Motherhood isn’t fair.

I felt that, too. Even in England where “breast is best” was supposed to be kept out of the hospital, it wasn’t. Not really. Which made me guffaw when I decided to go for it, popped out a ta-ta, and some old person then made a snide comment about public decency these days. Seriously? You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

All of this to say…

I’ve been thinking about babies.

(Not like that.)

I’m so thankful that my husband and I are one hundred percent on the same page about babies, family planning, and progeny. We’re done at two. One girl, one boy. Both healthy. Both happy. Both no longer babies.

At 6.5 and 4, we’re finally seeing some light at the end of some tunnels. Our daughter is showing early tweenage signs. Like the phone she made herself out of construction paper. Or the way she moves her hips when she dances to Taylor Swift. (Yes, I just wrote those words). Or the way she hums to herself in the bathroom as she combs her hair in an asymmetrical style. Her independence is blooming even as she still has emotional tantrums, mostly about her brother.

Which brings me to her brother. Having just turned four, he is constantly mistaken for a kindergartener. The first thing strangers notice is how big he is; he weighs over 50 pounds and I measured him at 43” two weeks ago, which is just shy of 3-foot-six. He’s in 5-7 year old clothes, depending on the brand. He knows all of his letters and numbers up to 20. And he speaks incredibly well. Part of this is just his personality. But I reckon a large part is his being number two in the pecking order and his sister bossing him around under the guise of teaching him absolutely everything she can. I’m so happy he’s mostly chill about it right now and loves being the student.

So, why would I want to change this? Press the reset button. Go back to square one. I don’t. That’s the point. I feel I’m finally getting “myself” back, which really means time to myself. Time to work out. Time to talk with my husband. Time to call my sister. Time to bake. Time to write (hey, there’s that book…). Time to draw. Time to sleep. Yes, we need to find babysitters in the area. Yes, we need to have more playdates and start sleepovers. Yes, we’re balancing two active duty careers at the moment. Yes, we’re not entirely sure what will happen this summer. But life goes on and the absence of certainty doesn’t mean you still can’t live your life. We’re trying and we’re planning for many possibilities. It’s just that another baby isn’t one of those possibilities.

And we’re totally okay with that.