Step by Step Parenting

“Alright, we’ll give you $59.83 in cash or $77.82 in store credit.”

“I’ll take the cash,” I replied quietly. I heard the cash register pop open, the rustle of paper bills, the clink-clank of counting change. But my mind was elsewhere.

“Here ya go!” the cashier chirped, dropping my bounty in my hand. I didn’t even look up. Instead, my eyes were fixated on the bin of clothes I had just sold.

A bin full of pink patterns, ruffles, and bows.

“They’re so tiny,” I practically whispered.

The cashier laughed, and said, “I know, it’s hard to look at clothes that small and think that my kid was ever small enough to fit into them!”

I just smiled, a knowing, wistful, and sad smile all at once, before collecting the baby clothes they wouldn’t take and heading out to my car. I tried to tell myself that this meant nothing, that we could always change our minds, that I could always buy new clothes, but my heart was heavy and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the end of an era.

People often ask us if we were surprised, or even dismayed, to learn that there was two babies instead of one. We have received several comments, ranging from surprise to disapproval, about how we now have five kids.

Concerned friends and family ask us how we handle it all, and if we’re doing ok, and the honest answer is that most days, my husband and I feel like we’re functioning at absolute maximum capacity. Both of our hands are always full with at least two kids — not to mention the fact that we both work and are in school — so it often feels like we rarely even see each other, despite sleeping in the same bed every night. Our three-bedroom townhome is bursting at the seams.

I wish I knew with the same surety as my husband does that we are done. I wish I could confidently sell all of our used baby stuff without crying in my car afterwards.

But the truth is, I don’t want these twins to be my last babies. And I don’t know what to do about it.

Growing up, I never wanted to be a mom. I was told that if I wanted a career, I would have to sacrifice motherhood, and vice versa. So imagine my surprise when I learned that I could juggle a career andbeing a mom. With that made-up hurdle out of my way, I dived head first into motherhood when I was only nineteen years old.

I spent most of those postpartum months in survival mode, unable to enjoy the newborn snuggles or soak up the milestones. It felt like I was crawling towards her second birthday, which was when I finally started to feel like myself again. By time my mental health was in a place where I could breathe for a moment, my baby was running, talking, and no longer even sleeping in a crib.

And then I got divorced, and I thought that I would never get the chance to have another child. God works in mysterious ways, though, and I ended up meeting my husband who also already had two kids of his own. With three kids between the two of us, life was plenty busy. But I still felt that pull to have just one more, and my husband agreed. He might have made a tongue-in-cheek joke about wanting to experience it all with the right person, but regardless, he was on board.

Just over three months after we said “I do,” we found out that there was two.

All throughout that pregnancy, I made an effort to savor it as if it was my last. I use the term “savor” lightly, because there are few things I hate more in this world other than being pregnant. I end up so deathly ill that I am completely bedridden, barely able to even make it to the bathroom and back.

My sweet husband took care of everything while I was out of commission. I don’t think I touched a single dish for months. I had warned him that I would be sick, but nothing I said could have prepared him for how bad the reality was. If anything, seeing how sick pregnancy made me just further convinced my husband that we were done having kids after that.

I journaled all throughout my pregnancy. We did a proper gender reveal. I had maternity photos taken. All things I neglected to do my first pregnancy that I splurged on this time because I was treating the whole pregnancy as if it was my last.

Then it came time to schedule my C-section, and my doctor asked if I wanted my tubes tied afterwards. ”Just while we’re already in there!” she said nonchalantly. I, of course, agreed. Talk about easy birth control!

But then, something shifted. I can’t explain it. I ended up calling back and telling them that I had changed my mind. I couldn’t bring myself to close that door forever.

I thought it was just the pregnancy hormones talking, and that the feeling would go away once the twins were here and I was reminded how hard it was to be in the newborn trenches. Surely, juggling two newborns as well as still parenting three older kids would convince me that I’m done having kids… right?

Wrong. Instead, the longing for another baby simply intensified.

Even though I technically have five kids, I only birthed three of them, and I’ve only been pregnant twice. After my second and most recent pregnancy, I feel like I’ve finally gotten the hang of the whole pregnancy to childbirth to postpartum pipeline. It feels a little cruel that right after I’ve figured it out, I have to say goodbye to that era forever, never able to fully enjoy it.

I’ve tried to hold on to every moment I’ve been able to snuggle these twins, to watch them fall asleep in my arms, to feel them cuddled up on my chest. I have carefully surveyed all twenty of their fingers and all twenty of their toes, trying to memorize every inch. The newborn phase isn’t just slipping through my fingers, it’s gone. No more newborn noises and grunts, or the smell of a newborn baby on their tiny little heads, covered in a peach-fuzz layer of hair. The thought of it all being gone forever is crushing. The thought of never experiencing it again is heartbreaking.

I know we can’t handle another baby right now, and maybe not ever. Even if all of the stars aligned, and I get a great job after I pass the bar this upcoming February and we’re able to move into a house that’s a better size for our family… it still might not be the right time. I am not sure I will ever be ready to be pregnant again, given how hard it is on my body and my mental health. Not to mention by time all of those things happen, my husband will be well into his forties. He’s concerned about how old he will be, and for several reasons, that’s valid.

I’d like to think that if years go by, and this feeling never fades, that we’ll figure something out. That I won’t have to live with this longing for just one more baby for the rest of my life. But without a crystal ball, I have no idea how I will feel in a month, a year, a decade.

There is no pretty bow to tie up this essay with. Only uncertainty and dozens of what-ifs.