I never thought it would happen.
In fact, I was certain it would not. After all – I was the one who didn’t want kids. What’s the appeal? I thought. You can’t travel. You’re limited. Tired. Tied down. The diapers. The mess.
You can’t live freely.
I just couldn’t see it. Not for me at least.
Then I met the love of my life – and learned that a love so strong brings with it other desires. Other needs. And with it – the realization that those other fears were less important. When a life is lived well before meeting your partner – the feeling of missing out on what the world has to offer, is a little less clawing. Creating another life. A life we make. Together. Ours. Felt like it was already a story written.
That’s what the world would have to offer, for us. Our baby.
So we had the one. Nathan would have been content. Was content. Just days after she was born, though, I realized I experienced a tectonic shift.
I too was content. I was in love. But I was far from done. Almost one year to the day later, we were pregnant with twins.
This, by far, for sure, unequivocally, would be it. There was no other possible reality. For what was originally intended to be a family of two was already a party of five. Certainly, this was the end.
The twins came. And yes. We were done. Love was bursting through every seam. As were the diapers. And the spit up. And the laundry. And the sleepless nights. And the colic. Yes. We were done. We took all the precautions to ensure this reality. We are closed for business, as it were.
And now. A day until marking 9 months with the twins and nearly two and a half years with our first, I’m questioning everything. I want more. I think I want more. Could I possibly, truly want more?
I’ve been quietly suppressing this feeling. Not accepting it. Not acknowledging it. You see, I am the only one who feels this way in my marriage. But it’s beginning to bubble over. And it’s time to honestly face what these feelings mean.
As I sat with a dear friend (and fellow twin mom) yesterday it seems I am not alone. We both have three young children. The most recent set being the twins. We shared how different the experience is with two, than with one. There are no special cuddles in bed, just you and your baby. There’s autopilot – overdrive – to just keep everyone alive. The pregnancy is like nothing a human should endure. All in all. The twin experience is just… different.
I keep going back and forth – deciding if I should say it was less special. Because that would rub people the wrong way. And that’s never my intention. But If I’m being honest, for me, it was a little less special. More robotic. The breastfeeding sessions didn’t feel like bonding. The witching hour was doubly hard. There’s just no one-on-one mommy-baby, get-to-know-each-other-moments. It’s almost like what could have been, wasn’t.
So I’m stuck in this place. My truth. We are done. Because we have to be. For many reasons. But I don’t think I can accept it. Not yet. Not now. Though I have no other choice. And maybe I don’t really want another baby. Maybe I’m simply mourning the loss of what could have been. Or maybe now that the the twins are no longer newborns, barely even infants – I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we will have no more baby firsts.
Babies. Twins. Are life changing. You just never realize what having one, or three, will do to your entire existence. I almost can’t remember the “me” from before. In a good way, I believe.
I have never accepted something in my life I wasn’t fully satisfied with. I will fight to the death for what I want or believe in. If there is something I need. I will always figure out a way. I have never failed at this.
I think this is the first fight I must succumb to. Understand that this is it. Drop my head, accept defeat and walk right up to the finish line.
I cannot cross it, though. I am not finished.