The Last Baby

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. 

A Sigh of Relief

The days leading up to Easter were stressful.  I don't mean that in a I'm-saying-I-was-stressed-to-emphasize-how-busy-I-am kind of stressed. No. It was more of I'm so stressed I can't focus or sleep kind of stressed.  Not only were we hosting Easter dinner at our house, which now totals 17 with kids and spouses and long time girlfriends, but I had a lot going on at work too.  More than all of that though, I haven't felt Carter move at all and at eighteen weeks it was really starting to flip me out.

With both of my other two pregnancies I was feeling all the flutters, and with Jack-full on kicks by that point.  I wasn't saying anything much about it the last few weeks but full on panic set in.  I kept telling myself 'everything is fine, all the tests have come back great, this is different than last time' but I couldn't convince the fear building.  It didn't help that Kennedy, playing the day before, looked up at me and, in her she-can't-possibly-be-younger-than-twelve-way said, "I am so excited we are getting a baby! We have never got a baby that's didn't die before!" All I could choke out is, "I know, love."  And so, by the end of last week, I broke down and called the doctor and left a panicked message on my way to work.  She called back quickly but by then I was absolute hysterics to the point that I could barely form words and she thought the call was breaking up.  She told me I could come in a little later that morning and they would do an ultrasound for some reassurance.  I sat in my car and sobbed in the parking lot for a good ten minutes trying to get myself together before my friend pulled up and saw what a mess I was.  She stood with me and let me cry for a few more minutes before we made our way into work to face whatever the day brought.  

I left for my appointment, terrified does not even do what I was feeling justice.  Was I prepared for awful news? Was I ready for this to be over?  Sean was stuck on a meeting and didn't know if he'd make it there in time to meet me.  He didn't get to be there for the ultrasound and as I walked back my feet felt like that weighed a thousand pounds apiece.  The tech got me set up and there he was, moving around, clear as day.  And yet, I felt nothing.  As the tech talked to me and pointed a bunch of things out I was too distracted to take in, I wondered to myself  ‘Is my brain blocking this out? Preventing me from feeling anything?'  Two years ago I was struggling as it kept sending me signals or memories, that had me thinking I could still feel little kicks-the little kicks of Jack, so was it confused again, this time telling me that there's nothing happening?   I tuned back in just in time to here the tech say, "Yup, there's the placenta in the front, it's acting like a barrier or a pillow, muffling the feeling."  Just like that I could breathe again.  I wasn't crazy-or not as crazy as I'd just convinced myself I was. 

When I got out to the waiting room Sean was just flying through the door, a look of panic on his face.  But quickly I could tell he read my face and saw, all was fine.  We waited to see a doctor or nurse practitioner for a while, clearly seeing they had done some shuffling to squeeze me in.  We saw an NP who looked to be about twenty-four.  As she reiterated what the ultrasound tech had told me I started to cry. Sob, really.  She assured me by all accounts from everything they could see and tell this pregnancy was going great.  "I just can't make myself believe any of you, I want to, but I'm just so afraid, all of time," I choked out. What she said, as she hugged me-clearly getting overwhelmed by my emotional display, finally settled me.  "You're doing the best you can, and that's enough," she gently reassured me.  

After that ordeal I was able to collect myself and finish out the week, buying Easter basket stuffings for all of the kiddos, buy the food, finish up a hellish-week-before-a-break school week, and dye the eggs.  Saturday came we watched April the giraffe give birth, Kennedy completely enamored, asking all kinds of awkward questions, and subsequently having all of her toy animals have babies.  With my parents entertaining Kennedy for most of the day, I set the tables, did as much prep as I could, stuffed baskets, and just about collapsed into bed that night.  

When Sunday rolled around we were ready to do all things holiday.  Kennedy was up and out of bed and all eighteen eggs found within 10 minutes.  She sorted through her basket-giving the Bunny her stamp of approval (trust me, these days that is hard to come by).  We showered, dressed up for the eighty-degree day and made our way to Jack.  

I don't know why, but sunny days at a cemetery seem harder than rainy ones.  It's like the feelings don't match the weather.  So as the sun shone brightly my girl "hugged" her brother and told him she found his egg with his name on it for him.  As I watched her, Sean took a picture of me.  Kennedy was in it, Jack’s headstone and my big ole belly. My kids: in all three stages of life. 

We were all together, or as together as we could be.  As we drove home to wait for company, Kennedy said in a quiet voice, "I really hope Carter doesn't die like Jack did, don't you Mommy?"  Again, my voice caught in my throat, I worked up the nerve to say to her, "it's going to be different this time, sweet girl," praying that God was listening to me still and could make it so.  

So, the family came, the fun was had, the food was eaten, the laughs were laughed, eyes were rolled, and we took in the rare time when we were all together.  

And this week?  This week is for resting. For catching my breath that had been held too long.  For a sigh of relief.  This week is for outside days and all the chalk we can stand.  But these treasure chests where you "dig" for treasure from Target? The devil. (As evidenced by the chalked smeared on my porch, driveway, and several outfits)

Fantasyland Magic

When Kennedy excitedly told me early last week that Lennon, our 5-month-old Basset Hound-Beagle-Lab mix, lost her first tooth and that we should put it under her pillow for the Tooth Fairy to come, I wondered how deep we should dive into fantasyland.  Does the Tooth Fairy visit puppies?  Were we going to set that precedent?  As she looked for her fairy-dust pouch to stow the tooth in under her pillow, I decided there was no way I could tell her no- and especially not when I had been trying to hold the Easter Bunny over her head for the last few weeks.

The results were magic. (By the way- the going rate for puppy teeth is $1 and a puppy treat)

After that I was hooked.  I needed another fix.  And so we baked cookies, dyed almost two dozen eggs, stuffed Easter pails for her cousins, decorated, and made sure there was nothing on the floor for the “big, clumsy Bunny to trip ova”.  When we woke up early, she proved to us "the Easter Bunny" needs to up his game in the egg-hiding department.

Again, magic.

We cooked and prepped for my family to come over.  It was going to be (almost-we were short one) all of my brothers, my sister-in-law and niece, my sister and her family, my parents, Sean’s parents, and two of our friends that didn’t have family in town.  The furniture was rearranged, the table was set, the food was cooked, the kid had napped even on a sugar high and I was applying my make-up as the first round arrived.

We egg-hunted, we ate, and we laughed, we argued light-heartedly, and ate some more.  And the magic seemed to just keep coming. 

That’s not to say that along the way there was a little sadness as we visited Jack’s special spot, brought him some Easter flowers, his big sister telling him, “Know what Jackie?  I’ll find your eggs for you and eat your candy!” but nevertheless it was a good weekend.

As we put the house back together again, Kennedy asked what we were going to do next, I emphatically said, “Rest.”  Last night she said, “Hey I got a idea! Let’s write Santa a note to say ‘hi,’ just in case he passes by our house while I’m asleep!”

And so, how far did we dive into fantasyland?  Deep. Way down deep and without hesitation.  And in case you’re wondering, we left Santa’s note on the porch table- and he just happened to be in the neighborhood.