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Not Ever Done.

Fat Mum Slim /

My husband and I agree on most things in life; Brie cheese is king of all cheeses, the beach is where we should always live, the couch is better than any dance floor, towel sheets are awesome, and the Roosters are the best football team in the world. I could go on, and on, and on. And on.

The one thing we don’t agree on though? The number of children we should have.

It’s something that I wasn’t going to write about here, because it’s personal, and it aches my ovaries and my heart, and I don’t want you to think that Hubby is some kind of bossy monster who won’t let me have all the babies in the world {but seriously, he should let me, right? We make cute babies!}.

And I feel it would be insensitive of me to not stop for a moment now, and acknowledge that, as far as I know, I am blessed to be able to have a choice and that I am able to fall pregnant. I am grateful, and hope I don’t hurt feelings of anyone experiencing infertility issues. I know this is a sensitive topic and I’m trying to navigate it carefully, while also respecting my own story and wanting to share that.

So, I wasn’t going to talk about it. But I keep getting asked the same question over and over again. It’s like when you’re dating someone and people keep asking, “When are you guys going to get engaged?” And then there’s a ring on your finger and people are pushing, “When are you guys going to set the date?” and then once you’re married it’s all, “When are you guys going to have babies?”

And now it’s, “Are you guys going to have more babies? Are you? Go on!”

The reality is, I would, I think… in a heartbeat. I love babies. I was a nanny for goodness sake, and I love babies. I don’t know anyone that loves babies more. I love them so much, their squidgy little toes, and how much they just need their mama, and all those sweet milestones, and gummy smiles, and that moment once you’ve gone through that excruciating pain and have been handed that delicious baby. I could live that moment a million times over. It’s the best. I get pangs of envy when people experience that magical birth moment. I love that moment, and the baby moments, and the toddler moments and the growing kid moments too. All of them.

The day after I brought Lulu home from the hospital, I cried so much. I cried for a few days actually. I can actually still feel that pain I felt when I cried. It was deep down, heart-aching pain. It was big fat tears splashing down my face, onto her sweet newborn head. I was so sad that she was my last baby. I was so grateful at the same time, which felt so odd because I’d actually JUST given birth two days earlier, and I was already crying that I wanted more babies. It sounds so greedy, but I promise you it was some weird, deep-down grieving process for the magic I might not ever experience again. I don’t understand it, but all I know is that I felt it. Hard.

I wasn’t going to write about it, but I realised I’m not alone. Some people know when they know. They’re done, and they get that final feeling. I don’t have that final feeling. When I packed up our pram, and the baby clothes, it was like I was cutting off a limb. I wasn’t ready. It felt… final. I still feel it when she grows out of shoes or clothes, and I begin packing them away. Do I keep them? Pass them on? Donate them? It’s torturous.

Some people know when they’re done, and then there are people like me, who don’t know. I fear that I might reach menopause and have an epic breakdown for leaving it too late. One of my best friends is like me, and my goodness it’s so nice to share that with her, that unique kinda pain. To yearn for another baby, but not be in agreement with your partner. 

I know this is something that probably should have been discussed before we got married. We should have agreed on a number of kids in our vows or something. Hubby tells me that I did, not on our wedding day, but one day. He clearly recalls that he wanted one and I wanted three babies, and so we agreed to meet in the middle at two. I honestly can’t recall having that conversation, but he’s held me to it. And I know that it sounds like we’re discussing children as numbers, as if we’re discussing how many art pieces we’d like to buy. Oh gosh, I hope this isn’t coming across as insensitive.

And there it is. I’ve written about it. {Weird, heart-aching, raw}. As each day goes by I am learning/trying to settle that strong yearning that comes from deep within. I love that my girls are growing up into beautiful beings, and I cherish the time I have with them. I’m loving the freedom that having them grow up allows us. I love that they are more than enough and they make our family so rich already. I love our family as it is. I am happy with the beautiful family that I have. So happy.

I also can clearly imagine having just one more baby. After all I’ve been to two psychics and without prompting they’ve told me that I’m meant to have three kids. I’m aware that time is passing now too, and it feels as though it’s passing faster than it ever has. My children are growing. My body is aging. I need to find a peace with what is {and what is, is beautiful and fulfilling and amazing}, instead of having my head in a place where I keep wondering what might be, or what should be. I’m just not sure how to do that.

Where are you at with babies? Is it possible to not have that ‘done’ feeling and be OK?