“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.
At twelve weeks we went to an ultrasound appointment and the technician said, “You know there are two, right?” No, we had not known that. We had jumped from parenting one to three in an instant. Panic set in. Finally, the worry I’d had from the start as to how our lives would change, affected my husband too.
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