"The End"

We had "the talk" this month. The one where we both confessed to each other, out loud, that this might be my very last pregnancy.

It's hard for me to imagine, less than 4 years after having "the talk" that determined we needed to try for a child, that we would be having the talk that would book-end it, discussing whether or not this second child would be "it" as in "the end."

I'm making no decisions, no promises, no anything else, for a couple of years, but I don't want to look back and mourn the fact that I didn't properly appreciate what may well be my final pregnancy. I don't want to lament that I didn't cherish the good parts of pregnancy - the internal acrobatics, spontaneous hiccups (except when they occur near a very full bladder), the feeling of being able to protect one's child from absolutely everything - even if for just 9 short months.

The whole thing has been on my mind a lot lately, as my pregnancy draws near to the end (3.5 weeks until the "estimated" day of delivery). Every time I outgrow another outfit, every time I lose my breath walking up the stairs, every time I look like a circus sideshow act putting on my granny hose in the morning (I can no longer reach - or see - my feet), every time I feel Pebbles kick ... I think, "this might be it." Yet, having the courage to voice it out loud has been nearly as difficult as finding a suitable real-life name for Pebbles.

Last night, we did it. We opened the door of possibility. I didn't know what to expect, how to feel - but a myriad of emotions washed over me. Tentative relief. A bit of sadness. A dose of selfishness and guilt. After all, my body is apparently (surprise, surprise) able to conceive and carry children. The same body, however, is apparently bound and determined to make it as difficult as possible each subsequent time. All of the testing indicates that all subsequent pregnancies would require the same treatment as a precaution - the 6+-month course of expensive, painful injections. The numerous lab visits, the coordination of care with a perinatal specialist, the side effects (extra fatigue and nausea). It all seems like such a small price, but I'm feeling barely human these days. Twice in the past two weeks I had to nap before I left for work at 8:30 a.m. One day I nearly danced in glee that I had to stay home with Woodstock who had a mysteriously high fever for a single day - because it meant a 2-hour afternoon nap.

I worry constantly about what all the medications are doing to Pebbles. I know statistically she'll likely be fine. But neither drug was studied for long-term use, and drugs, as a general rule, aren't studied using pregnant people as subjects. I worry about what they are doing to MY body - and then feel guilty. Anything that has "death" listed as a side effect tends to make one a bit queasy, but there is an internal component built into mothers that automatically makes them sacrifice for the good of their child. I just don't want my sacrifice to be so great I leave two little girls without a healthy, fully functioning, stable mother.

And then there is the anxiety - the feeling of losing absolute control when there are more than 3.5 people in the room at any given time (it is artifically high this week, given I have charge over two teenage boys and a toddler while 9 months pregnant). Chaos makes me physically ill - completely unable to function. We already guessed this would limit our "creating humans" capacity, but I'm only beginning to bring it out into the light of reality to examine it.

I knew the minute I gave birth to Woodstock that I wanted another child. I had baby lust FAR more after giving birth than I ever had before. Pregnant women, women with new babies, women planning on more babies, all made me pine for another one - even when I had a barely-sleeping-through-the-night infant of my own at home. I knew as strongly as I knew anything that there was another child waiting for me. It makes me wonder what crazy emotion will wash over me this time in the after-delivery delirium that makes women insane enough to think "it wasn't so bad, I can totally do this again!"

If it says, "Have another one," so be it, but I have to be prepared to give the "okay" to myself, to my body, if it doesn't. If Pebbles really is my last baby, I resolve to be the best two-child mother I can be and focus on those delightful spirits entrusted me, knowing I left no one out.

Still, there is something so ... final, so emotionally draining about even uttering the words, "The End."