This week I finally cleaned up the baby stuff. Instead of being elated that the junk was out of the way, it made me weepy. Is it? Could it be? (Gasp!) Time for another baby?
It’s been nearly two years since W slept in his Rock ‘n Play sleepers, yet they stubbornly remained in our bedroom and in the living room. Instead of being a bed for the baby, the one in my room was filled with magazines, chargers, and pajamas. The one downstairs held his toys.
I credit Cyber Monday for motivation. I figure now is the best time of the year to get the storage furniture I’ve been eyeing, so I did it. Down went the jumpy seat. Into the closet with the swaddling blankets. On a shelf went the sleepers. Our place is officially de-babyfied. Whew.
Then why don’t I feel relieved?
There’s no doubt the house looks way better. I’ve been wanting to get it “back” ever since it was taken over by mounds of baby gear. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while. So why do I feel so conflicted to be moving on from the infant stage? Even…sad?
Does this mean—could this mean—that I want another baby? I’ve liked the idea of “just” one. I’ve got the hang of it. Why complicate a good thing? I’ve always adored my sweet boy, he’s honestly way easier as a two-year-old than he ever was as a baby.
End of an Era Nostalgia? Or Something More?
Nonetheless, packing up all that stuff feels like the end of an era, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed there’s a change afoot. W referred to himself as “baby,” for over a year, as in, “baby up, baby eat, baby there.” Now he calls himself by name. Sigh. I saw a picture of a three month old on TV and wanted to hug it.
Is this just nostalgia or do I want two?
My mom and many others with experience kept telling me that the seeming creeping pace of W’s infant months would be a flash in retrospect. Naturally I didn’t believe it. I felt like I was awake 24 hours a day, so naturally time dragged. Sometimes I felt so overwhelmed that I wished it would go by faster. However, now that W’s a little over two years old, the exhaustion is starting to fade from my memory. Is it possible I could do it all again?
I’ve been trying to imagine how I’m going to feel when I’m old. Will I be grateful to still have one at home when W goes off to college? Or will two kids make my life too hectic to enjoy? There’s also the daughter I always dreamed of…. Yet I’m so much happier with more balance, adult time, and predictability. Do I want to give that up?
Apparently I need to make up my mind soon. I’m told a woman is “of advanced maternal age” when she reaches 35. Thirty-five just doesn’t sound that old to me anymore. Alas, biology and culture are no longer aligned. I know I can’t hit the “pause” button on time. But there is a way to relive the “baby stage,” and that’s with another one.
If this is what I get for cleaning, I think I’ve learned my lesson!
Q: What about you? How did you decide when it was time for another (or not)?