This news--this surprising, exciting news--makes me desperately jealous.
Please know that this doesn’t diminish the happiness I feel for Julie and her family, and the hope that the pregnancy, birth, and beyond are smooth sailing for them all. Please know that I am deeply, humbly grateful for the babies I have; I know there are many others out there who would be thrilled beyond measure with two healthy children. Or who are very happy with their tight-knit mom/dad/one kid trio.
But every time I learn of a new pregnancy, that splinter of envy grows, until it becomes a sharp, jagged shard I can no longer ignore.
My husband is unmistakably done having children. And I’m struggling to accept that that means I am too.
He adores our children. He takes good care of them. He beams with pride at their accomplishments and their cuteness. But he sees parenting as a burden, another item on a too-long list of duties. For me it is, most of the time, a privilege and a blessing.
Along with that third baby I’ll never have, I mourn the partner who never finds the delight in the everyday; who wishes each stage of baby- and toddlerhood away before it even begins; who’s missing, I believe, the forest for the small, needy trees.
I remind myself that no more kids means no more morning sickness, pumping, sleepless months. It means less money spent on child care now and college later. It means we can all fit comfortably in our house and our cars. It means more travel, more free time sooner rather than later.
I weigh all that against the honor and the joy of adding another person to our family – and it just doesn’t compare. It doesn’t compare at all.