It's hard to wonder why I'm so eager for another baby. That baby-head smell. That chubby little pink body wriggling away from the diaper as fast as she can move. Those cute little dimples on the backs of her knees. I remember the wrinkled spider monkey that I delivered a year ago, who was hooked up to tubes and wires and PICC lines and IVs and all of that... and I wonder, why do I want to do this again?
Why would I inflict the sickness of pregnancy on my body again? Why would I want to do the depression, that awful PPD, those long nights that scared the everliving shit out of my friends? Why do I want to see my husband have to suffer through that again?
I wish I had an answer. I really do. But I don't. I keep telling myself to be patient and grateful for what I've got. There's no telling how complicated the next child would be, or what we'd end up with, and I do have a painful awareness of exactly how lucky we were to have a 31weeker with no complications or developmental delays. Fetal distress, brachys, and my seizure risks at the end non-withstanding. There has been one very painful moment when the Boy was a bit intoxicated when he clutched me close, buried his head in my shoulder, and said that he was afraid that he'd lose both me and the baby that last night, and he couldn't see how he could go on without us. That without me he'd be dead in a ditch downtown, with no reason to go on. That's harsh. I feel the same way about him, sometimes. I know, though, that he'd manage to go on if I passed on and he had the KittyCat to care for. Not that I'm about to let him risk that. So I guess I'm not goin