The day after my husband Kyle and I decided to try for
another baby, our three-year-old slathered himself in his own feces. Literally,
it was like 24 hours after we said “Okay, we’re doing this” that I was trying
to get some writing done and put Hank in front “Milo and Otis” for a half-hour
so I could knock out a commissioned blog entry about dental implants. After
awhile, I realized it was way too quiet in there, so I got up from my seat at
the kitchen table and was hit in the face by the overwhelming smell of crap.
Hank was perched casually on the edge of the couch, with his hands folded
together as if in prayer. There was poop all of both of his hands, his stomach,
his back, and a couple streaks across his face. “I need to wipe my hands off,”
he declared.
It took us this long to conclude that having another baby
was a sound, if not completely exciting decision. Hank was a relatively easy
baby – he hardly cried, made the transition to a bottle easily after my boobs
decided they were not going to dispense milk properly, and he was sleeping
through the night nine weeks in. But my hormones and serotonin got all wackadoo
and I was served up some pretty hardcore post-partum depression for the better
part of a year before we got all the anti-depressants and anxiety and birth
control figured out.
Ah, the birth control. Hank made his appearance on a plastic
stick while I was on the Pill because I, not thinking of the side-effects, took
some leftover antibiotic when I got hit with a urinary tract infection over
Memorial Day in 2011. (Side note: I am not particularly good at remembering to
take medicine when I should, which might help explain the unplanned pregnancy
and why I had old Bactrim lying around.) Naturally, after I had Hank and realized
that breastfeeding was not in the cards for us, I went back on the Pill because
ain’t nobody got time for all that business. Of course, a month after giving
birth, I was in absolutely no mood to have sex, and the added hormones plus the
screwed-up brain chemistry only solidified that feeling, so I suppose it did
its job by proxy. Kyle wisely gave me an extra-wide berth during that time.
So! For the sake of everybody’s sanity, I did some research
and decided that Paragard, the copper IUD, was the most effective and
lowest-maintenance birth control available. No hormones involved, nothing to
remember, just throw that pogo stick in there and we’re good to go. Aside from
the placement – which was no big deal,
but I was so nervous about the whole thing that I made kind of an idiot of
myself at the doctor’s office – I love it. It has almost no side effects; a
little longer period, but that’s it. I can check the little strings as
necessary to make sure things are still where they need to be. And it does its job. Hank is 3 years and 3
months old at the time of this writing, and he’s still an only child.
He’s still an only child.
As I was over at our old house last weekend, cleaning out
what remained in Hank’s former closet, I told Kyle tearfully that depriving
Hank of a sibling because of our own fears was the most selfish thing we could
do. When we’re gone, who does he have left? Sure, he’ll probably have a family
of his own, but whatever he started with will disappear. Kyle is 36; I’m 34.
Our window for safely conceiving a healthy baby is getting narrower by the day.
I don’t want to wake up in ten years, I told him, and wish we still had time to
grow our family.
So as I scrubbed the floor in the room where we cut our
teeth on parenting, we decided to try for another baby. We established some
ground rules early on – six months of trying, then it’s snippy-snip time for
Kyle. That may seem like too much pressure, but if even if we were to conceive
tomorrow, I’d be halfway through 35 at delivery. That’s just cutting it too
close for my comfort level.
I started the process today by going to the OB/GYN and
having my IUD removed. That was refreshingly simple. I had the idea in my head
that they’d pull it out in a similar manner to the way one starts a lawnmower
or chainsaw, with the doctor bracing one foot on the exam table and yanking for
all he’s worth. Luckily, I was incorrect. I’ve had more difficulty dislodging
floss from my teeth.
My doctor, a very slow-speaking, Mr. Rogers sort of man,
told me that while chronologically I am 34, my health and lifestyle put me at
more like 29 or so. Having a baby, he said, was an excellent idea. If Dr. Mr.
Rogers says so, I pretty much have to go for it, right? He also said he
wouldn’t be surprised if he saw me back in there in a month or two. With the
copper IUD, there’s no residual hormone to clear from my system, so my
fertility is right back to normal.
Let the games begin.
