You know how I keep saying we're done. No more kids. Two's enough. I love being pregnant so much; if we don't stop here, we might never stop. There's a lie in there somewhere. I just don't know where.
Here's what I know:
My cycle, which has been back since The Lad was about 10 months old, typically runs about 37 days between periods. Day 37 was in the last week in March.
The first week, I was ho-hum about its tardiness. Anywhere up to 42 days would be normal.
That mark passed. I took a pregnancy test, but at night. No big thing. I was not pregnant.
Another few days passed. I started to fret. I took another test, this time in the morning. We were not screwing around. (No pun intended.) It decidedly said "not pregnant."
Yet, my period refused to come. I started to get testy. I snapped at the husband. Why hadn't he gotten this taken care of sooner?! I apologized immediately, but said, "What the hell are we going to do with another kid?" (This was right about the time The Beastie had been kicked out of daycare for biting.) The husband looked at me and said, "Well, we'd deal. And we'd get to see The Lad as a big brother." I melted.
Still no period. I started to toss around names. I laughed thinking how having three kids with birthdays surrounding Christmas would make it look like the husband and I only slept in the same bed in March. I wondered what The Lad would say to a little brother or sister.
The next day, 51 days after the last one, my period arrived.
And I was relieved, so relieved the cramps didn't hurt.
At first I was thinking about writing a post saying I had lied: Maybe deep down I really want more kids. But then, I thought about my initial and final reaction. Maybe the lie is that stopping at two is only a practical decision. Two really is enough for me. I don't know.
Do you think you can ever know for sure, really and completely, that you're done having kids? I'm glad to be able to plan my family, but I wonder if this is the kind of choice you just have to make and hope for the best.