Boogers on the Wall

Nine months of morning sickness, body aches and sleepless nights. One scare-you-to-death abnormal genetics test. Many, many hours of sitting still while strapped to a non-stress test machine waiting for quality movement. A month full of painful, annoying contractions. A terrifying delivery when for a small moment we couldn’t hear the baby’s heart beat.

To say my last pregnancy was my hardest would be a serious understatement.

I spent three quarters of last year stressed beyond coping. It’s a wonder my husband didn’t divorce me. I survived, and got to take a beautiful baby girl home with me from the hospital.

But after all it took to get her here I know I have to be done. Physically and mentally I can’t go through it again. I always said I wanted to have four or five kids. And that’s what I have. Four or five. Depending on how you count.

Call me weak, call me chicken but I’ve had one overdue baby, one early miscarriage, one preemie, one 37-week stillborn and two am-I-crazy-for-going-through-this-again? rainbow babies.

It was hard for me to get pregnant. And the past two times being pregnant was almost crippling.

I know it’s a very personal, unique decision for everyone. For some people it’s easy. For me it has not been.

Even though I know I can’t go through it again, one small fraction of my heart cries out, “How can you be done?”

There is nothing like a human baby. Absolutely nothing. They are the most pure, innocent and snuggly creatures on Earth. And when all goes well, there is nothing like the pregnancy excitement – seeing the double line on the test, watching a heart beat on an ultrasound, finding out if you’ll be buying pink or blue clothes – it’s all so much fun.

Then there’s the anticipation and excitement of driving to the hospital knowing it’s time. Friends and family come visit and it’s all a big celebration.

That tiny piece of my heart keeps asking me if I am ready to give that all up?!

I packed my maternity clothes up last week and shoved them in the back of my closet. I plan on never using them again. But for now I can’t part with them.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the decision my husband and I made that we’re done having kids. A lot lot. I’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t matter how many kids I had, 7, 10, 20, part of me would still feel like one is missing – the one I carried for eight and a half months then had to bury. He’s missing from our family vacations, family pictures and family fun time. And always will be.

To be completely honest, I have been kind of bitter about his death lately. I feel like I got cheated. I worked hard to try to get him here safely and he was taken from me in an instant. There was nothing anyone could have done to save him.

Not only did I lose my third little boy but losing him created this uncontrollable fear inside me making it harder for me to want to have any more little ones. I love each of my kids. They are amazing. Despite the fact that they can completely stress me out sometimes, part of me wonders if I would have had a dozen kids if things had played out differently. I lived through two pregnancies after Luca’s stillbirth, but I can’t do it again.

And so I put the lids on my maternity clothes boxes and they’ll collect dust in my closet until who knows when. And I’ll live with our decision to be done. I know it’s the right one, but it’s just been a hard one. Some people have to be done. We could have more we just aren’t.

I made it through my birthing years with four beautiful babies to raise. Some women never get the chance to be a mother. I’ll forever be grateful that the Lord let me be one to some pretty amazing kids. That makes all the stress, craziness and risk in getting them here worth it.

Now I guess it’s really time to be done.