Marriage is about compromise. It’s a well-worn cliché. I always imagined that the compromises would be about the color of the drapes, the style of the furniture, or whether to hang the Kiss Army ornament on the tree. Either you give in altogether, because ultimately whatever the decision, it’s just not that important, or you both find something that you can agree upon because neither of you really likes the other’s choice. Ultimately it all balances out.
A few years ago, I was faced with a dilemma. My daughter was three, and it was time to think about having our second child. My husband and I had agreed many years before on having two children, spaced four years apart. Now that I had one child, though, one seemed like the perfect number. My imaginings of adding another to the mix amounted to nothing more than stress. Siblings complicated things: managing multiple schedules, play dates, homework, friends lists, paying for preschool twice, and paying for college twice!
I remembered the woman I’d met at my husband’s high school reunion who had said while chasing after an infant and a toddler, “Two is not twice as much work. It’s ten times as much work. It grows exponentially.” I watched as my friends, one by one, became pregnant with number two. I went to baby showers and play-dates and watched them handle their toddlers and infants, all the time marveling at their poise, grace, and preparedness. How did they get out the door with two to feed and clothe? How did they make dinner with two who needed attention? I would not be able to do that. I couldn’t get any anywhere on time with one kid. How could I have another?
Preschool time came and I couldn’t find one that fit my needs, so I kept my daughter home. Life was good. She was independent, able to play with others and alone. We had a babysitter, whom she adored, a great apartment and could finally go out and have fun. I was able to diet and had the time to practice yoga. I looked and felt great. But my daughter was three, and it was time to start all over.
“A baby,” I thought. I remembered holding a friend’s baby in my arms and saying, “Okay. I could be ready for another one.” While I thought, “Really?”
Don’t misunderstand, I was madly in love with my daughter and thought every minute was worth it. I had raved to a friend about the marvelous gifts of parenthood, meaning every word. I just couldn’t believe that I could easily expand my focus to include another child, without going crazy.
To me this all seemed obvious. “One is a good number,” I said to my husband. “But we said we’d have two,” he replied. “You really could have another one?” I asked. “Yes,” he said.
I did not detail my concerns. I did not try to woo him to my side of the argument. We had agreed on two children years before. We had agreed on the spacing between them—which we thought would help with college tuition and sibling rivalry.
Deep down this was no longer the direction I wanted to go—two kids, a house in the suburbs. I liked my one-kid, fabulous-apartment-in-the-city, yoga-practicing, evenings-out-with-friends life. I felt like my husband and I were at an impasse, although we never discussed it. He had little idea of how strongly I really felt because I didn’t persist in my argument. I knew we’d had an agreement.
One night in a fit of martini-induced passion, I figured, “What the hell? Let’s give it a shot.” A few weeks later I could feel my body changing. I knew, and I didn’t know what to do. I was not ready. “No, no, no,” I thought, “This can’t be.” I didn’t share my suspicions or concerns with my husband. One evening I presented him with the stick. He was thrilled. He had no doubt or ambivalence.
