The Conversation (part 1 of 5)

One evening a few months ago, my wife and I were relaxing on the couch. Chris and Tommy had both gone to bed early, which is very unusual. We found ourselves with a rare moment of ‘alone time.’

We were talking about nothing in particular when this sentence just popped out of her mouth:

“What would you think,” she asked, “about having another child?”

Oh God.

In the back of my mind I guess I knew this would come up one day. I didn’t know when. I just didn’t think it would be right now.

Of course I know exactly what I think – no way. We’re finally past the infant stage for the second time. We occasionally get a good night’s sleep. The boys are both now able to understand and follow instructions – though they often choose not to. Chris is potty-trained, Tommy well on his way. I have no desire to start all over with a baby.

A third child means we’re outnumbered. Right now we’re overmatched at even strength. Add a third player to Chris and Tommy’s team and Mom and Dad are in trouble. In hockey terms, the kids would have a power play for the next two decades.

Financially I don’t want to go there. We’re doing okay now, but a third child will tax our resources, particularly with day care. And do you know what diapers cost? Oh, and the college fund. A third child and we’re looking at begging for financial aid at East Dishrag Community College in 18 years.

Not to mention that my wife and I are both getting older and the risks of complications would be greater this time around. For her and for the child.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my boys. If you’ve read any of my previous posts you know this. But I think two children are plenty. I have no desire to tempt the fates with a third child.

These are all logical, rational points. But I know this conversation is not going to take place in that realm.

I thought for a moment, decided to play for time. “Well, I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I miss having a baby,” she said.

She clearly wants to talk about this. I have to be fully engaged and have this conversation with her. It’s very important to her and she needs me to be an active participant. Unfortunately, I have no idea what to say right now.

When in doubt, stall. “I’m sure you do,” I say.

“I love the boys, I really do,” she says. “They’re so cute and fun. But I can’t cuddle and hold them like I used to.”

Let me say, at this point in this story, that my wife is a wonderful mother. I mean it, our kids could not be luckier. She loves them so much and it shows in everything she does. She plays with them, reads to them for hours, draws and paints with them, and comes up with countless things to do with them. She has incredible patience.

And she’s wonderful with infants. She really was radiant when the boys were babies.

But my memories of ‘cuddling and holding the baby’ are a bit different. I remember many nights of walking a crying baby up and down the hall for what seemed like hours at 3:30 a.m. I remember dozing fitfully in the recliner with a baby on my chest, neither of us sleeping, each trying to outlast the other. I remember driving up and down the freeway for hours one night to keep a crying baby out of the house so my wife and older child could sleep. I remember a Labor Day weekend with a sick infant, putting him in the stroller and walking around the block for two hours in the middle of the night, the only thing that would keep him from crying.
And these are some of the less painful episodes.

It wasn’t all that long ago that Tommy threw up right into my mouth.

“I can imagine,” I say. It’s a nothing response. But I’m engaged, making eye contact, leaning toward her to show that I am an active participant in this very important conversation. Hoping all the while it goes absolutely nowhere.

She is getting wistful. “They’re growing up so fast. Tommy will be going to pre-school next year. Chris will be in kindergarten. It would be so nice to have another baby to cuddle and love.”

Truth be told, she has her share of bad memories as well. If she were in a rational, logical mood right now I could point those out. But this isn’t one of those times. I’ll have to handle this differently, and I’m thinking it’s time to try to gently nudge this ship onto a different course.

“I understand how you must feel,” I say, “…as best I can not being a woman. That mother-child bond is something special, something I’ll never really know. I’ve seen you with both our boys when they were babies and how much you enjoyed it. They couldn’t have been luckier to get a mom like you.”

She smiles. As I’ve told you, this is an honest and true statement. I believe it with all my heart.
I continue, “But it seems to me our family is perfect right now. Our boys have really bonded with each other, and we’re really starting to do family things where everyone can participate. If we add pregnancy and a baby into the mix, it’s going to be like taking a step backward.” Oops, a small tactical error there. “A short, temporary step,” I add, “…but even so, we’re doing so well right now, it’s hard to imagine changing things when our family has such harmony.”

Did I just say our family has ‘harmony?’ Where did that come from?

But this is also true. We really seem to be ‘gelling’ as a family unit. There is harmony in our home. Granted, there is also chaos, discord and anarchy from time to time. But in a good way.

We talk a while longer. I gently bring up the age and risk factors. She can understand that. We know a couple, not much older than we are, who have a child that is developmentally challenged. She’s often commented that she’s grateful we don’t have that particular issue to deal with. I don’t even bring up my financial concerns – I’m smart enough to know that argument won’t fly.

As we go along I get the sense that she’s not really wanting to have another child. She knows, in her heart, that our family as it stands today is the family we’re meant to be. And she is, for the most part, happy and content. I think she needed to have this conversation to actually close the childbearing chapter of her life and move on. And I think she feels like I have participated with her in that.

Thank God.

She slides closer to me on the couch. “Well, if we’re not going to try to have another child,” she says, “we should make sure we don’t have an accident.”

“Makes sense to me,” I say.

“But I’ve always had problems remembering to take my little pills.”

This is true. I remember a couple of ‘scares.’

I say, “Well, there’s always...”

She cuts me off. “I know. But then we can’t be…spontaneous.” She leans in closer to me. Her arm slides around my back. She nuzzles my neck.

Is she wearing perfume? I think she is. That’s unusual.

Her lips gently brush my ear. And where is her hand going?

“Maybe you could…talk to a doctor..,” she whispers.

Oh shit.

It’s great to be The (yikes!) Family Man

Next: Part 2 – The Consultation