My mind keeps drifting back to that long day which ended with a new babe in my arms. A small pink squirming life, eyes like dark pools blinking up at me against the harsh strip lighting overhead. I recall how this new person was thrusted up under the hospital nightgown, ready to nestle against my breasts and hear the familiar heartbeat that had had kept him company for those nine months.
I have always wanted a large family, a house filled with loudness and laughter, chaos and love. Excuse the rose tinted glasses for that's all I have. In the first year of F's life I was so immersed with this new being that I could not think of sharing my love with another, but in the back of my mind I was quietly confident that soon a sibling would join us and those childhood ideals of mine would come to fruition. As some of you might remember I have touched upon the subject of loss, a tiny snapshot of grief. As these years have blurred by my confidence in conceiving has dwindled. Two babes gone in two years. Each time I move forward, and as F grows I am able to claw more of myself back, not tied to those hourly night feeds or baby attached at the hip. I flex the small amount of independence gained with this ageing boy, the solo weekends away, nights out with friends, the ability to stay up late and to go work.
I swing between the want of more children and the new found freedom I have, like a pendulum in a clock. Back and forth, ever changing. Each month I wonder if I'm fooling myself either way, whether I know what I actually want. Then I'll have a grizzly day, where F won't eat the food I spent lovingly preparing, my patience runs thin with the constant repeating myself or a tantrum is thrown in for good measure. In that split second I forget how precious a gift he is and I mentally wish away the years.
Then all it takes is one moment caught off guard, siblings playing, a film, others happy news. In that moment the tears flow and I know that one is not enough.
