Lately, the push, the pull, the questions, the “damn I want another one” feeling seems omnipresent.
T is turning two soon. Something about two leads to questions about number two. From everyone.
I have an appointment scheduled with my MFM. I want to ask him about what happened last time, and I know he won’t have a definite answer for me (although my fingers are crossed that MFM’s are now issued crystal balls along with their MD’s), but I just need to hear it from him what he thinks the chances are that we’ll go through all that again.
Well I know it’s not great. It could be worse. But I was healthier before I got pregnant with T and look how that turned out. So I know that right now isn’t the right time. But I also know my health turns at the snap of the fingers, maybe a few months from now could be the right time? Or not.
Realistically I know what happened last time. If my antibodies are still there, even at all, even a little bit, then the risk is there.
I look at T. He was obviously worth the risk. Except, wait, I risked him. Well, fuck.
I’ve been looking at his baby pictures. Looking at my sweet little baby with all his rolls. Watching videos of him learning to walk. I do want more of that. I want to bury myself in it and never come up for air. I want it so bad sometimes it’s like I can actually feel my damn uterus aching.
Stupid biology. Stupid fucking body.
We talk about how hard it would be. How tired we are already. How we snap at each other when we never did before. Will we have enough energy to give T his fair share AND another one?
Paul is positive he can push through anything, the awesomeness is worth it. He knows this with all his heart.
I know it too, but unfortunately I also know that it’s not my heart I’m worried about. More like my kidneys.