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. 

Growing Pains

I can remember crying as a little kid that my legs hurt and my parents simply saying, “Those are just growing pains-they’ll go away soon.  They just mean your growing up.”  I’m learning that there are growing pains in raising children too-for them, for us.  Maybe pains is sort of an understatement too, maybe agony is more accurate at certain points.   Over the past five years there have been points where Kennedy and I have to find our way out of the thick of things, and I’m reminded of that every now and then with the new guy.  But it’s the little lady that brings the heat these days...in a big way.

Kennedy and I are on the struggle bus...and we seem to be stuck in bad traffic, unable to move forward much.  Actually, to be real honest, it’s more like grid lock...on a hot summer day.  It’s rough, man.  I find myself looking at her and praying that the little girl that she was the first four solid years of life is still in there somewhere and that she just may be taking a backseat to the girl that seems to be trying to find herself in a take-no-prisoners sort of way.

I swallowed a hearty dose of mama guilt the other night when I was talking with a friend of mine and, after she asked me how things were going with two kids in the house, and I said, “Well it’s really just tough in the mornings and the late afternoon and evenings,” that I realized what I was really saying.  I felt awful that was describing all of the times that Kennedy is in the house.  But it’s true.  Getting her ready for school is a battle-getting her up, picking out her clothes, asking her to eat breakfast, choosing a lunch that she will actually eat, when to go out to the bus-all of it turns into a battle.  Why, you may ask, am I engaging in an argument with a five year old?  Because I am desperately trying to make sure I am doing a good job raising her to be kind, and respectful.  I don’t ever want to snuff out the fire that burns within this girl, but I know that we have to be careful that it does not become an inferno that could cause destruction in this world.

Another awful moment came when I realized somewhere along the way I’ve become a “No” mom. Not in a ‘no, don’t do that you can get hurt’ kind of way but a ‘no, not now’ or ‘no, because I said so’ in a response to a little kid that may really not understand why.  I’ve never wanted to be that person-and not because I think children shouldn’t hear no-but because sometimes it’s in the “yes” that the magic happens; and so with all of the no that passes through my lips at this beautiful girl- for no other reason than that I’m tired or cranky or just plain lazy- I’m missing the magic.  I realized it was happening this past weekend at a birthday party we went to for a friends little girl.  For starters, I left Kennedy home with Sean because I knew that would be easier than nagging her to calm down and behave around all of the babies and little kids. Then as I was changing Carter’s diaper, another friend’s toddler was picking stuffed toys off a shelf and tossing them into the crib. My friend, she laughed along with her and asked her questions about the animals and just reminded her she’d have to put them all back shortly; and my heart ached.  Because I knew, without a doubt in my mind, that I would be telling Kennedy no, and to stop it.  And why? No one was getting hurt; nothing was getting broken.  I found myself asking ‘what am I doing?’

So the next morning I decided I would take her out for a girls day, leave the baby home with Sean, and just enjoy my girl.  We decided to go and see ‘Wonder’, her first grownup girl movie.  She wanted to bring my mom too, so we picked her up and off we went.  As soon as we entered the mall where the theatre is she spotted a bounce house area they’ve newly added and I braced myself for the begging and whining.  It didn’t come but she made sure to point it out.  We found our seats and got our snacks, and almost began the movie without incident-until she got annoyed at me and pulled at my arm and knocked the eight-dollar bag of popcorn off my lap and spilled half of it on the floor.  I just about lost my mind, and then, because even at thirty-two I can act like a petulant child, I thanked her for ruining a nice time with her bad attitude (I wonder where she’s learned it).  She pouted for a few minutes and then apologized to me. 

The movie was beautiful, though it tore me apart in a hundred different ways- making me think of Jack and what our life may have been like with him, how it would have effected Kennedy, and more than that how losing him did effect her.  And I cried.  I cried as I thought of all of the ways this little girl’s life has been changed for the last three years.  First we tell her she is going to have a baby brother, then tell her he is going to be special and things will look a little different for him, then we leave for the hospital and come back with no baby.  Not only do we not bring her brother home but I came home a different version of her mama-one that cried a lot and smiled a lot less and that she tried so hard to make happy.  One that many days could do little more than turn the television on and feed her.  She waited for me-to heal, get my act together again; she waited patiently.  And then after all that we go and tell her she’s going to have a brother again.  And so she apprehensively gets excited and we turn her little world upside down again, this time bringing home a baby that takes up a lot of our time and therefore a lot of her time with us.  And still the fire burns.  All of that and her spirit has not been broken-not by life- and so I’ll be damned if it’s broken by me. 

You see, as I watched my little girl bounce around, and slide, and laugh at the bounce park after the movie, my heart broke a little.  How could I be so impatient with her as she is growing, testing, and feeling things out?  She has taken me at my absolute worst and loved me fiercely through it.  If she, at her young age, was able to do that, then I will do the same for her.  I will do my best to say yes a little more, take in some of the magic, let the fire burn brightly and wait out the growing pains. 

This year I don’t have to try to hard to find things to be thankful for.  I am thankful for my family, my friends, my husband, and my beautiful children here with us and the little one that watches over us from above; I am thankful for this beautiful life that has continued to pull me forward even when I fight against it.  I am thankful for all of you.  Thank you for following along with me on this journey of grief, and healing, ups and downs, failures and wins. 

Happy Thanksgiving.