You know what stresses me out?

This:


I've almost gotten used to having every single Lego tower I build get knocked over before I'm done and I can deal with the fact that anything I put away gets taken right back out again, but for some reason, mixing the play-doh colors makes me nutty.

But I let him do it because I know it's the right thing to do.

But again for the record, it makes me nutty.

Too smart for my own good

Before Eli's nap each day I usually spend a few minutes cuddling with him. I used to tell him I couldn't, not wanting to form "bad habits," but then one day I realized, "Am I nuts? He's not going to ask me to do this forever." So, now I do it. The first day I said yes it took him by such surprise that his response was, "You can? Why could you?" And now, just about every day, when he asks and I say yes, he says "Why could you?"

Today as we got comfy he asked if I was going to go soon (I always give him a one minute warning) and I said yes. He said, "Why will you go?" And I said, "Because I can do things while you sleep, like cook and clean...." And in a sort of quiet sing-songy voice he repeated it back to me: "Cook and clean and watch television..."

Ahem.

It's not as if the first thing I did when he fell asleep was go grab that piece of carrot cake I snuck into the cart at the supermarket when he wasn't looking and then settle in on the couch to watch the episode of The Hills I knew Tivo had waiting for me. Geesh. It's not like I did that. No.

I checked email first.

Yeah, I know, but I kinda thought maybe

If there's one phrase that could sum up the last year and a half it would be this one: "Yeah, I know, but I kinda thought maybe." It fits in so many situations, from the macro - "Really? You don't think you're too old to have another kid?" - to the micro - "Every sign points to you not being pregnant; do you really think there's hope this month?" I can't even tell you how many times I've said it to myself... yesterday included, just before another cycle drew to a close.

Things are winding down here, with my 41st birthday three days away and an absolute certainty that there will be no pregnancy before it arrives. I know that deadline was self imposed with a convenient built-in exit clause (which I will be using, most likely) but it still looms large. Or medium-sized, anyway. I guess I thought I had to have some dramatic conclusion to all this "trying," but I think instead it will just quietly go away. Not this month, probably not next month, but soon. And I think I'm okay with that.

I realized something recently, though. I've been dreading telling people that we've stopped trying almost as much as I've been dreading the point where we stop trying. Why? Well, I guess that the best way I can explain it is to say that right now, infertility is like a painful cut. Continuing to try for another child is a protective bandage. It puts up a symbolic shield and eases the pain a bit, in part because I know we’re still trying, but also—just like a band-aid that people can immediately see and know there’s something to be careful of—other people understand how badly we want it. Take off the bandage, stop trying to have a baby, and the wound is just open, and practically invisible unless someone takes the time to look closely. And just like any wound, it will heal with time, but never completely. To put it succinctly, that’s gonna leave a mark. There’s no doubt about it.

In our old house we had neighbors with an only child, a girl named Danielle who was one of the most delightful 10 year olds you could ever meet. Eli was just a peanut at the time and I remember her mother saying to me that seeing him made her wish for that baby stage again. I, in all my infinite, ignorant insensitivity replied, “Well, you could always have another! La la la!” (No, I didn't say the "la la la" part, but I may as well have.) Now, two years later, with a wholly different perspective, I cringe when I think about what I said to her. Sure, there’s always a chance that having one child was their choice. But there’s an equal-if not better-chance that it wasn’t a choice. And knowing what I know now, I believe what I said to her was painful. This is the type of salt-in-the-wound comment that I dread.

I think this is at the root of how I can feel so content with the idea of raising Eli as an only child, and yet still feel so hesitant to tell people so. Because saying we’re done at one could easily imply that one is all we decided we wanted, when really it’s what we’ve made peace with.

I've started to think about what what to do with our guest room, the room that was supposed to belong to another child. I'm thinking a small wall-mounted flat-screen and some furniture rearrangement to allow us to move the exercise bike up from the basement. I'm thinking maybe I'll still go ahead and get the print that I bought as a "nursery decoration" framed because otherwise it will just collect dust in the closet. I'm thinking some new bedding, since it will likely be there for a long time. I don't relish moving forward in this direction, but maybe it will distract me for a little while. None of it feels good, but ultimately it feels right. And I guess that's the best I can ask for.

I have one and I'm AWESOME

What's been eating away at me lately is this feeling that I, for some reason, "should" continue trying for a second child. I had thought it was because eventually I know Eli will ask why he's an only child and I wanted to be able to tell him that we tried everything we could. I wasn't getting that settled feeling that I normally do when I find the root of my discontent, so I knew there was something else at the heart of it, and I finally think I figured it out.

It's this: If I only want one, I feel like I've failed. It's not at all that I think families with one child are somehow "failed families." It's that I had always been on autopilot, thinking I wanted two, and now, if I only want one, what does that say about me? Again, this has nothing to do with families who want one and have one and are happy. I really, really want to stress that because it is SO about me and so NOT about anyone else. But the point is, if I wanted two, and I got one, and now I don't want two anymore, does that mean I don't like being a mom? Or that I don't think I'm enough of a mom?

I know (on the logical, intellectual level) that of course the answers to these questions are "Of course I do" and "Of course I am." It's just there seems to be some guilt about saying to myself, "I don't want any more of this. Thanks anyway."

I think the reason I separate myself from other families with only one at this point is, well, first and foremost, I have these tendencies toward self-imposed (and unwarranted) guilt but, more importantly, it's this changing-of-my-mind aspect. What changed my mind? Why is one enough? I wanted two. Why don't I feel like I want that second one anymore? It's convenient to say that over time I've just kind of lost my enthusiasm, but in the grand scheme of infertility, we've been trying for NO time at all, so if the true desire was there at the outset, I think that a year and a half later it should still be there.

We're continuing to try for a bit longer, but I'll admit that it's half-hearted. I rarely chart; there are no more "let's do it one more time just to cover our bases"; sometimes a new Project Runway is just more interesting. You get the picture.

I am very much the type of person who has to have some psychological peace before I can let something go, and half the battle with that is finding the root of my discontent. I think I'm on to something with this one. I've got more to think about.

Before I go: I think I made my point but I feel very strongly about making absolutely certain that I'm not misunderstood: I am not not NOT saying that mothers of only children are not "enough" in some way. The ridiculousness of that idea is what led me to this revelation in the first place, because no one should think that, including me. What I'm trying to do here is just sort out my convoluted, confused feelings.

My one and only

Lately I've noticed a subtle but significant semantic shift in my life, one that followed a more dramatic one. When Eli was tiny, the common question was "Is he your first?" Easy question to answer. Once he reached a certain age (maybe 18 months) the question became "Is he your only one?" Also easy. Lately, the question has become (pay attention here because this is the subtlety) "Is he an only child?" A little more complex.

The reasoning behind the first question is obvious. The reasoning behind the second question, in my estimation, is that people want to know if he's an only child but he's still so little that if even if he is, he may not be destined to stay that way. But now, at almost three, the minor language change speaks volumes. The etching of his identity into the proverbial stone has begun.

It doesn't really bother me, it just gives me potloads of food for thought. These days, everything gets me thinking about Eli as an only child. I meet grown only children and study them, their comments, their thinking, their ideas. And, if I know them well enough, I ask them about it directly. I watch TV and think things like, "Well, Little Bear is an only child and he seems happy. Mother Bear doesn't play with him much, though, and Father Bear is quite serious. Little Bear must be lonely. And yet he seems happy. Thank goodness for Duck. And Cat. And the others. Who will be Eli's Duck?" (Dora used to be another only child role model but I found out recently that she has twin baby siblings. Why'd they have to go and ruin a good thing? I liked her. So spunky, that one.) So it's only natural that as people have started asking directly whether Eli is only child I have found myself mulling it over (and over and over and over). Each time I say "Yes, he is," I try it on for size. I wonder, "Will that feel natural for the next twenty years?" "How will it sound when they ask him and he says, "Yes, I am."

As you might have gathered from all of this, I'm still not pregnant. I don't expect to be. As sands through the hour glass, so are the months of our TTC. We're giving this another few months and calling it quits, and we feel pretty good about that. Soon I will be 41. At that point, a baby conceived would be exactly four years younger than Eli. More importantly, at that point, I would like to get on with my life. I think because I had always "planned" to be done having children by the time I was 40 (which then became "done getting pregnant"), my 41st birthday just seems like a nice cut-off. And, more importantly, an age difference larger than four years seems so big -- too big for us.

At first I resisted having a set cut-off (and of course I reserve the right to completely ignore it when the time comes), but I look at it as giving myself the gift of freedom: freedom to embrace what we have and make it extraordinary; freedom to stop thinking about what might be, and start celebrating (completely) what is. David would be content to stop right now. I'm not quite there. I'm almost there, and every month lately as I'm waiting to blow a few bucks for the privilege of seeing just one lonely line appear on that stick, I tell myself "Yeah, this is the last month." But then I can't quite follow through with it, and we try again. But I do think it will happen once and for all, very soon. There are too many wonderful things about raising an only child, and too many fantastic things about taking our life off hold.

So obviously this wasn't our choice at the outset, but I feel good about the fact that it's our choice now. I feel good about deciding when enough will be enough. I feel optimistic about our future as a threesome. I feel optimistic about Eli's future as an "only." Even without Dora as his animated counterpart.

A New Year

Eli was born on New Year's Eve, and this year he turned, well, I think you can guess what he turned.

We had a great time celebrating his birthday together. I took a risk and scheduled his annual check up for that morning. Before you accuse me of being an uncaring mother, I did confirm that there would be no shots involved. The whole thing went fine, except there was supposed to be a shot involved. Oops. So I'll suck up the co-pay and go back. I just can't do that to him, even though I know it would only hurt for a second. It's just not fair.

Everyone needs a post-doctor reward, so we headed over to Dunkin Donuts where they had, of all things, a white frosted donut with M&Ms on it. I swear, Eli -- who had never seen anything like it -- thinks they made is especially for his birthday. He was excited, to say the least. Then we headed to our local children's museum (which was happily very empty) for a couple of hours of playing. Home for lunch, the centerpiece of which was a cupcake, and a hard-fought-for nap. He needed to sleep because in the evening hours we headed to a friend's house for a European New Year's celebration. (Actual midnight just doesn't work well for three-year-olds.)



We saved Eli's present from us for the following day because we knew it would require some real time, which we just didn't have on his busy busy birthday. Needless to say, he was pleased with it.



So. Three. He's three. And he's a good three, not that I'm biased. It's true what they say, that they just get more fun. I've thought every age has been the absolute perfect one and then he just goes and gets even more charming, more interesting, more adorable. Some days I can't believe how big he is, that he can reach every light switch in the house now. I can't believe how much he's developed cognitively in the last six months, either, that he actually reads such a wide range of words. And then other days I look at him and think, "Look at that tiny person. He's still very, very small." But every day I love him to pieces.

And guess what? He loves me back. I have very purposefully not encouraged him to say "I love you" to me (or to anyone, really) because as much as I wanted to hear it, I also wanted to know it was coming from him when he said it. He's said it spontaneously a few times, but mostly accompanied by some whining or some manipulation or some other scenario that didn't make it feel like "it." A few nights ago, though, before he fell asleep, he was calling for David (who does bedtime) and I went in instead and he was so surprised and happy, and then even more so when he asked me to cuddle (his usual stalling tactic) and I said yes. I laid down next to him and he said, "I love you, Mommy." That one I count.

40x365: #56 ~ Kami

A virtual-turned-real-life friend who most surely was always one of the "cool kids." I still feel that adolescent insecurity about that when I am with you, and yet you are so sweet, it's almost possible to forget.