So we’re having that third baby discussion. Ok, argument.
Ok. Actually, it’s more like every night I pour a glass of wine after the current offspring are put to bed, and casually bring up how wonderful having a third baby would be. And Husband rolls his eyes at me and says no.
Sometimes I think we’re making progress. As in, I’m getting closer to getting my own way.
In all honesty, it’s not really a conversation any more. Because one of the parties is pretending to listen while the other one whines and
begs pleads her case incessantly.
And by the way, he’s not wrong. ( No telling him I said that because I don’t want him to think he’s winning). Education is expensive. We don’t have enough time. Life is already complicated. I haven’t slept in 4 years. Our house is too small. We can occasionally taste some freedom and feel ok about getting a babysitter and going out for dinner.
Yeah. I get all of those things. But every round, pregnant belly I see makes my heart sink. I feel sad. I feel jealous. I look at my two toddlers and miss strapping them to my chest while walking around a park. I’m sad to never experience a first smile or first step or get to know another little personality that I made in my own belly.
I’m sad because with each child it was like falling in love for the first time. When you couldn’t wait to see them again, and couldn’t bear to be apart even for a little while. When every little detail about how they reacted to something or wrinkled their nose or laughed at you delights the shit out of you. Don’t get me wrong, they still delight me. I just want to do it one more time from the beginning.
And yeah. I’m super lucky. Our kids are beautiful and healthy. We have good support from family and friends. We have a little army surrounding our little humans.
But I keep thinking “What’s a few more years of sacrifice to bring one more sibling into the mix?” It’ll all be worth it when they’re older and the house is full of laughter and fun and holidays will be total chaos and joy. Just one more. And then I’ll feel like everybody that’s supposed to be here is here.
And it’s not like I don’t have days or moments where everything sucks. I’ve yelled. I’ve cried. Child rearing is not for the faint of fucking heart. I know it’s hard. But I also know it’s worth it.
So here’s the deal. Husband has promised a few things to get me to shut up. ( Fair enough. I’m extremely persistent and somewhat aggravating):
1. If I stop asking about babies, he said I can pick out any dog I want.
2. The dog I pick out cannot be a Saint Bernard, a Great Dane or a goat.
3. If we win the lottery, and it’s enough for me not to have to work, then I can have as many babies as I want.
4. # 3 is turning me into a gambling addict. I bought hospital lottery tickets, regular lottery tickets, and every goddamn scratch ticket out there. The best I’ve done so far is 20 bucks, and I don’t think that counts.
I feel like since I’m giving up the idea of a whole other person, I should use this opportunity to negotiate for something really good.
What do you think, Bitches? Should I ask for a weekend away every year, to any place I want? A motorcycle? A monthly massage?
They say that raising a child costs about 250 K these days. I’m taking suggestions for something of equal value. Thoughts?