I see that pregnant belly. That bouncing baby. The mother nursing her infant. The diaper commercial. My resolve weakens and I’m filled with this strange longing.
It’s been weeks. Months. It comes and goes. Perhaps along with a hormonal ebb and flow. I ponder and imagine. I furrow my brows in thought.
Dare we tempt fate. I look at my beautiful boy, my stunning girl and chide myself. How selfish, you have such beauty, such perfection, and yet you want more. Will you ever be satisfied, isn’t your cup full enough?
It becomes conversation. Pros and cons, the finances, the dreams of travel, the big and the small. Something to discuss here and there. The dialogue continues in my head. Why did my last pregnancy have to be so difficult, the pain so searing that I begged for her to come early. Why did he have to break my body; that little boy with a giant head?
I was so utterly done when she finally came. I gave away everything, all the infant accessories, bouncers and bassinets. Be rid of you swings and baby playmats, we’re on to better things. Crawling, then walking, now running and playing. She cannot be stopped, the girl with the red hair. She runs as fast as her little legs can take her and speaks in full sentences at the mere age of 18 months.
We are so full, so blessed, so thankful. So why, why this longing? From where does it come? Is it shear biology?
The questions come too. The “do you want more” “are you done”? I was, I am, and I do, but don’t. I could say just how done I was with conviction, and now it’s softened into an “I don’t know.”
I want to write my book. I want to sleep in on occasion. I want to have energy and give my children the best of me. Amid all these wants I want more, I want it to last longer. I want to be fearless, open, and full of possibility.
I am so very done, not done.