Last week, as I was trying to refocus and prepare myself for another month of trying to conceive, doubts flooded my head.
Should we keep trying for another baby?
Are we being greedy?
Am I too old for this?
Can my heart withstand much more disappointment?
How is this struggle impacting our children?
Should we be focusing on what we do have, rather than what we don’t?
I entertained the idea of giving up…trying to accept the idea that our family might always be a family of four.
But, last night, I realized something.
As I rocked my son at bedtime, I smoothed his no longer baby fine hair from his forehead, held his toddler hand in mine, and touched his little boy toes…a routine that we both know by heart.
The weight of his toddler body sometimes catches me off guard.
He’s twenty months old now.
How is that even possible?
In that moment, there in his rocking chair, I realized that in so many ways he isn’t a baby anymore.
And that kills me.
There is something so deep inside of me that isn’t ready to be done having babies.
I dream of experiencing birth just one more glorious time.
There’s something that needs to nurse another baby in those middle-of-the-night hours…in the quietest moments of the day.
I yearn to feel the near weightlessness of an infant against my chest.
In those moments, with my not-so-babyish son on my lap, I knew that I couldn’t give up yet.
So, I will brace my heart for disappointment, but I will also hang on to the hope that remains.
In time, perhaps we will have to give up, but I am certain that I’m not ready yet.