Dribbles of Yes, Drops of No
Is it rude to just jump right back in and start talking again? Can't be much fun to follow a blog that gets updated less frequently than motor oil. But, well, here I am with things to say, so I'll take the liberty of saying them to you.
To start with, we're all well. The kids are, unsurprisingly, growing; Olivia is a big girl of three, and Josh is a compact bundle of nineteen-month-old vigor. It looked for a while like there might be another come November, but a wholly unsuspected pregnancy ended in a wholly uneventful miscarriage at the end of March. (I knew I was pregnant for about ten days. My first reaction was abject fear, followed in rough order by generalized worry, a nervous thrill, tentative acceptance and cautious delight, all tempered by the vague feeling that something wasn't quite right--not enough nausea, some cramping, a spot or two. The miscarriage still managed to catch me by surprise, unprepared and at work; can't think why.)
I've been thinking a lot about three since the miscarriage. I've also been thinking a lot about forty. I just don't know if the two are compatible; I don't know if I have it in me ("it" being an egg or two with tidy chromosomes, the physical energy and the mental fortitude, not to mention the funds if we had to pursue treatment again). The temptation to try, though...god, it pulls at me.
Jeff is in a different place. He feels complete. He also feels like hell, not having had enough sleep or time or peace for three years. He works so hard to keep everything together for us all; I've leaned on him too much, I think, and need to step back and see the terrain here from a different vantage point. I'm willing to put myself through it all again, but should I be willing to put Jeff through it if he's only accepting, not eager? I know the right answer to that is a firm no. I also know that we don't really have time to change our minds later, which is profoundly scary to me.
At bedtime, Olivia has taken to asking for "a dribble" of a lullabye. I start in, a rolling "Rockabye Baby, in the tr--" and she'll chortle when I hit the awkward stopping point. Then she'll ask for "just another drop." I sing another syllable or two and she giggles a bit more, especially if Jeff joins in. She loves that it is unexpected, that she can't predict where we'll stop. When I leave the room, I find myself humming the rest of the tune, closing it out so it doesn't hang there, annoyingly unfinished. I realized today that that's what these thoughts of three feel like to me--like I've reached an awkward stopping point, mid-phrase, and want to complete it. Jeff, being very sweetly tone deaf, isn't bothered in the least.