For the last seven months there has been a thought swirling through my head. I guess it would be better described as a realization than a thought; but in any case, I can’t shake it. I’ve gone back and forth about whether it was something I’d write about or share but I figure I’ve literally shared just about everything else with you that this shouldn’t be the exception. From the moment they placed my sweet, chubby Carter Fitzgerald in my arms I have not been able to stop thinking, “this is my last baby.”
In all honesty I haven’t thought about it very often lately, but as we stood on the beach in North Carolina two weeks ago, visiting Sean’s dad for Easter, Carter’s first beach visit on a windy afternoon, it came rushing to the forefront of my mind; “This is my last baby.” And then suddenly it has been all I can think of. Everything I am doing with him, everything he does for the first time, it all comes back to the same thing “This is the last first time I will see this. This is my last baby.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking because almost every time I’ve uttered that aloud in front of someone I hear the same response: “Oh, you never know! You may decide to have another one some day!“ But here’s the thing, and the is where I have been unsure if I should share: There will be no more babies. Not that I give birth to. Not that I will carry for nine months. Sean and I made a decision about nine or ten months ago that this would be the last pregnancy. My amazing OB talked with us in great lengths about it all and in the end I decided, for a number of reasons, that I would have my tubes removed. You may be wondering if I grappled with the finality of it at all and I swear to God the answer is no. I didn’t need to think about it at all-I knew deep in my bones and from the bottom of my heart that it would be my last pregnancy. You see, I barely made it through with my sanity. I felt like I had worked so hard to put myself back together into someone resembling the “old me” but the whole time I was pregnant, the fear built as I wondered what would it look like on the other side for me-would I end up a disaster again? And so, I knew. And I delivered my healthy baby without issue, heard his cries and could breathe again, and when the doctor asked one final time if I was sure, I said yes. And I was. I am. But it just means that now when I think, “This is my last baby,” it’s true; I guess I just never anticipated all of the emotion that would come with this.
No baby is perfect, but this boy, he is damn close. He’s happy, barely cries, he’s quiet, and, up until about two weeks ago, was sleeping through the night like a champ. And the way he looks at his sister, my god, could melt you to a puddle on the floor. All of this, and so much more, makes you feel like you could have twenty more kids like him-that it would be easy, that you’d want to keep going back for more. Don’t get me wrong- Kennedy makes my heart beat. She kept a fire burning in me even when I felt like life was over-but I knew from the minute she started walking at eight months she would challenge me in all of the ways for a very long time to come-I could never handle another Kennedy; the world could not handle another Kennedy.
The other day in the car I asked Sean if Carter made him feel like he wants another baby. Now my husband is not a man that oozes with emotion so to ask him “feeling questions” can be perplexing. He starts talking logistics: cost, where would we put another-we only have three bedrooms, etc., to which I, perhaps too emphatically, reiterated, “FEEL! I asked do you FEEL like you want another baby?” He simply said, “Yes.” I quickly responded with, “Well we can’t,” before I let any kind of regret creep into my mind because the fact is we are just both so in love by this sweet baby, our rainbow, and that’s what that whole exchange was speaking to. Even if we were to have had any more kids they wouldn’t be like Carter; we all know there are no two kiddos alike. But truth-be-told I'd be lying if I said I didn't from time to time worry we made a mistake. It's enough to send me into a full blown panic but then in the next instant everything we went through with Jack and the memories of losing him come rushing forward and I am reassured that it was the right thing for me. That, if anything over these last few years, I know myself well; I know what is best for me and I know what will keep me together and whole for my husband and babies. This is my last baby.
But here we have him, the last baby. And so I find myself watching his every move so closely, committing everything I can to memory; wanting so badly to make sure I can remember it all clearly down the road, the further away we get from these moments. I watch him play with Kennedy and think: He is everything she’s waited for. I’m so thankful and relieved we were brave enough to even try for him to begin with.
I love every moment of him. But there is something somewhat paralyzing in knowing that a baby is your last, like you don’t want to move forward but rather stay in these moments for as long as you possibly can. So when I’ve found myself dwelling in this head space these last few weeks, I try to remind myself that though he may be the last baby, and we’re going through so many last Firsts, there is so much life ahead of us; so many firsts to look forward to-for both of my kids-and many more lasts too; and that it’s all ok. Just as there is so much magic in all of the firsts, there is in the lasts too; maybe even a bit more.
