Two Years is a Long Time to Marinate

I really thought I was done.

Like the meat thermometer doesn’t go any higher, the chicken is all dried out done.

But I had a twinge the other day.

Already?

I’m not even recovered from the most recent total life-altering one.

I was shopping. I don’t remember where. I saw a very pregnant mom-to-be. And I actually felt a little sad that I wasn’t pregnant anymore.

That totally blindsided me because I don’t like being pregnant. And this last time I was so sick and miserable for so much of it, I was relieved when Wade came a month early as soon as I learned there weren’t any complications from him being slightly premature.

I’m so sleep deprived right now, and struggling to keep up with a newborn and four-year-old that I think, “You’re crazy for wanting to do this again!”

The doctor told me after the C-section that I could have one more, but that I needed to wait two years to let everything heal. Originally he’d said Wade would be my last if I didn’t have a VBAC this time. And at the time It didn’t matter because I thought I wanted Wade to be my last.

Two years is a long time. I’d be that much closer to 40. And do I really don’t want to be plagued with headaches and nausea and fatigue for months again? Do I really want to put my body through that again? It was more difficult to recover this time.

I was never one of those girls who dreamed of being a mom. I didn’t even really play house growing up. I was sort of take it or leave it when it came to a family. I mean it was something I thought I’d do, but it wasn’t something I had to do. Then once I had two I was sure it would be enough.

I can think of a million reasons why I shouldn’t.

But there’s the one big reason I should.

Well, I guess we’ll wait and see how I feel two years from now.