“Are you sure you’re ready to do this all over again?” my husband asks abruptly, turning to me in bed.
I pause, momentarily resting my spoon in the bowl of Breyer’s cookie dough ice cream balanced on my 8-month pregnant belly. “Nope. Not even close. You?”
“No, but I think it’s a little too late for that,” he says with a small smile, gesturing to my swollen midsection where our cabbage-sized baby is currently starting his nightly aerobics.
It is a familiar conversation; one we’d had when our first baby swam inside me, both of us a tangle of nerves as the full weight of the unknown settled over us each night. Now, 15 months later, about to do it all again, I feel that familiar anxiety rise up in my gut, prepared to stuff it down like I have so many times over the last 32 weeks.
But tonight, I decide instead to let it sit, allowing myself to truly feel the entire spectrum of worry I’ve glossed over in favor of other, less-terrifying distractions. Like the heaping basket of laundry in the corner or the half-finished tile installation that has necessitated a bathroom vanity, washer and dryer to take up residence in our small bedroom for several weeks. Those other concerns have been on my mind all day, but I am not giving them any more credence tonight. My child is coming in two short months and I owe him five minutes of an undistracted mind before I slip into fitful sleep.
The worry of two. In the quiet darkness, this unease terrifies me more than any nightmare my pregnant brain can conjure up.
I watch myself chasing after a spirited toddler with a baby clamped to my breast, desperately trying to get him to latch so he’ll cease his purple-faced screaming.
I picture those side-by-side nurseries I dreamt of so many months ago coming back to haunt me; the thin walls the only barrier between my wailing infant and my light-sleeping toddler.
I feel the heft and weight of guilt permanently sagging my shoulders like dense chainmail, trying to explain to my older, but still-very-young son why mommy can’t play with him right this minute.
I see my soft, fleshy postpartum body on display in a summer tank top instead of the sweatshirts I hid under the first time, with no hours in the day and nowhere near enough energy to transform it back to its pre-baby shape.
I envision the lonely, tear-filled days stretched out like a flat country interstate, with only brief respite from the monotony during the short hours my husband takes the wheel.
I see my bumbling inadequacy spotlighted in a grocery store or a doctor’s office, as I try to manage two children so close in age that those naysayers must certainly have been right when they told me I was crazy to get pregnant again so soon.
The worry of two is almost paralyzing when I give it my full attention, which is why I so rarely do. I know there is no preparing for it, no amount of “you’ll be fine”s and “try not to worry”s that will ease my disquieted mind.
But part of me wants to believe that by embracing the coming struggle, leaning into the full-force gales that are about to mix up the dust, I will be less surprised when the storm hits. Instead of barricading myself in my basement while I wait for the inevitable, I will stand boldly on the front lawn and watch the clouds roll in, hoping my awareness of what is to come will make it easier to weather.
And I know it’s not all doom and gloom. Having a second child will multiply more than just our exhaustion and worry; it will amplify our capacity for love, deepen our pool of happiness, stretch and grow our little family until it feels like we’ve always been a foursome. So much good will come from adding a second child to our lives. But I also feel compelled to expect a less-than-seamless transition, in case that little bit of readiness helps me prepare me for that which I cannot possibly ever be fully prepared.
So my answer is still no, I’m not ready. But maybe accepting that is half the battle.
***
About the Author
