Friday, July 01, 2011
There it was on the bottom of my monthly “What to expect” hospital newsletter, written in bold hyperlinked type, “Time to start thinking about the next baby.” Just reading the line made me gasp. At this point in the game I feel like I’ve passed a threshold, a pitstop on the hike, and you want me to think about going down to the bottom of the hill and starting again? Are you freakin crazy? Better women and moms than me have done it before. But really? By choice? Can’t I birth a three year old, or an eight year old? Do I really have to start over at the beginning with the sleepless nights and the breastfeeding and the oatmeal cereal and the reflux? It was fun the first time around, but I didn’t know what was coming next and how much more fun and exciting it all got. And now I do.
This morning, Story and I made scrambled eggs together. She pulled over a kitchen chair to the butcher block and helped me crack eggs on the side of the bowl. We heated the pan on high while we cracked four eggs and one yolk, we added a little half’n'half and gently beat the eggs. Then I held Story over the pan while she sprayed the butter. We poured the eggs into the skittle and she said, “Oooh” while it crackled. We used a curved spatula to keep the eggs moving and then we adjusted the heat to low and dragged the spatula through a few more times. Story said, “Cheese”, so we added a little cheese. And a little salt. And then we sliced a few strawberries and made up two plates. Story carried her own plate over to the table and we sat for breakfast. She used her fork and scooped the eggs towards her lips. And then she did something adorable that I will not soon forget. Just like Daddy does when the mac’n’cheese comes out of the microwave, she leaned over the forkful, and she blew.
“Hot,” She said, blowing on the eggs and then gingerly scooping them into her mouth. She cleaned her plate and I watched her with a heart overflowing with love.
My husband is afraid to have another child because he thinks he couldn’t possibly love another child as much as Ms. Story. But I have no worries about that. I believe the heart has no limit on how much it can love – it just expands to hold more. I have no doubt I would love another little baby with all my heart and soul. I worry more about losing the very precious freedom I’ve finally acquired as a mother of a growing toddler. You see, like my heart, my selfishness knows no bounds.
I worry more about how much longer it will take for me to get my waistline back, my breasts back, and my career back. I fear a new baby is the end of my dreams and my ability to make my mark on the world as a professional. Am I wrong?