Yesterday, I came across an article on the NY Times, that for the life of me I cannot find again, that talked about how millennials had these big dreams of a 3 bedroom house with a picket fence and 2.5 children, but how we aren’t actually doing that. After getting into an argument on Facebook with someone clearly trying to poke the fire (I should have known better), it encouraged me to think about my own life.
My husband and I are lucky-ish. Neither one of us have fantastic incomes (we get by fine), but as he comes from a wealthy family, he had a townhouse purchased for him upon college graduation. We lived in the townhouse, mortgage free, for 5.5 years of marriage. After the birth of our son, we took out a modest home equity line of credit, and had some updating done. We then used the equity in our townhouse to finance a bridge loan, bought a house, sold the townhouse. The equity in the townhouse was a fantastic down payment, so while having a mortgage was definitely an adjustment, it’s also definitely doable. No picket fence, but it’s our own little square of land.
True to the American standard, we had planned on having two kids. The original plan was having one and reevaluating, but we both knew we really did want two kids. After trying for about 7 months, I got pregnant. At 6 weeks on the dot, I began daily all day sickness that lasted well into my 20th week. The list of foods that I couldn’t eat far exceeded the list of what I could actually digest. My body was not excited at all about being pregnant. I also had a bad taste in my mouth which lasted into the 16th week. Everything tasted bad, in addition to being violently ejected frequently, and no amount of toothpaste could get rid of the taste. It was hormonal, totally me, and my husband could neither smell nor taste a difference in me.
As I finally started to feel almost human, my ankles and feet severely swelled. I retained fluid like it was nobody’s business, to the tune of 12 lbs of weight gain in a month, followed by another 20 in two weeks. I had preeclampsia, big time. I was put on bed rest, and just as I settled into a twice weekly doctor’s appointment, my blood pressure spiked. I delivered my son, with an hour and a half notice, by emergency c-section at 25 weeks 1 day. I spent a week in the hospital post surgery, as my blood pressure was impossible to regulate. I will likely spend the rest of my life on some sort of blood pressure medication.
We got lucky. My son spent 104 days in the Nicu, and two years later is a completely normal toddler, with two scars, one of which he examines daily. He is literally one in a million. 25 weekers usually have all kinds of problems. Plus he was a transport baby, and transporting these fragile neonates is almost a guarantee for brain bleeds. Somehow, he made it through all of that, no brain bleeds, no abnormalities, no issues minus the standard that comes with preemies.
So, he’s two now. My husband and I have decided that due to the complications I had, that attempting to have another child is a terrible idea. I won’t put another baby through what our son went through, nor do I frankly want to do that again. Plus, we got really lucky. There’s no telling how things would go if we tested our luck again. Adoption is ridiculously expensive. Adoption is more than my husband and I make in a year combined, expensive. So, our son will be an only child. I’ve considered fostering, but I want him to be old enough to understand, and even then, my husband has to get on board, which he’s not yet. It’s seldom that I go a week without someone asking when we’re going to have more, or telling me that our son needs a little sister. What’s shocking is these are people who were there. They KNOW what we went through.
First, even the healthiest of babies is expensive. Second, who’s going to take care of that child? Not you? You don’t get a say. Third, having, or not having, a child is a deeply personal thought. I will be the first to tell you that I desperately want a second child. I so dearly miss that smell of newborn head, and the feeling of that tiny baby folding its body into you, maybe even some of the nighttime feedings, where it’s just you and the baby, without anything else but each other. I’ve mostly forgotten the hell of pregnancy. I know what happened, but I don’t remember what vomiting 5 times a day every day feels like anymore. I remember the taste, but not what the taste tasted like. I remember the fear. I remember the fear deeply. I remember the c-section being painful, but not what that pain actually felt like, and I know that I would have to have another one due to my classical incision.
My son will be an only child. He will want for nothing, and be loved fiercely. He will be encouraged to go out into the world and do great things, and will go to any college he wants. I am not selfish, or a bad parent, or incomplete for only having one child.
Statistics are statistics, but just because you don’t follow them, in either direction (although I really wonder why anyone would want four or five kids) does not mean you’re less than.
The INTJ Female 