"My Third-Kid Obsession"
There are a few things veteran mothers never tell you before you become a mother yourself. 1) Milk comes out of both of your boobs when you nurse, not just the one your baby is attached to. 2) Packing lunch for your first-grader at 9 p.m. when all you want to do is watch
Grey's Anatomy will occasionally bring you to tears. 3) Just because you think you're done having babies doesn't really mean you are.
I always planned on having two children. I can even remember the first time I daydreamed about it with my husband, Peter. It was 1993, my freshman year of college. We had been dating for several months when he took me away for the weekend to Block Island, a quaint New England island full of beautiful bluffs and charming, ramshackle inns. As we were driving to the ferry, I gazed starry-eyed at him and imagined our pretend kids sitting quietly and perfectly in the backseat of the beat-up red Isuzu Trooper we were driving. (This was a fantasy, remember?)
Fast-forward 11 years: After laboring all 24 hours of my 29th birthday, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl named Talia, who, for the record, has never sat perfectly in the backseat. Her little sister followed two years and nine months later, and I was done.
Done. Several months after Sofie was born, my mom's cousin came to see the new baby and casually asked, "So, when are you going to have your third?" Through my postpartum haze, I shot arrows at her with my eyes. Couldn't she see that a 30-pound-overweight, weepy version of myself with a wailing babe at my breast was not something I was planning to repeat?
Yet just hearing the question made me begin to wonder. Could I, should I, do this again? I was 99 percent sure the answer was no. The problem is, I'm a type A person. I like things organized, whether it's my kitchen or my emotional state, and that one percent of doubt kept me on edge. I knew I wouldn't do anything about it immediately — Sofie was just a baby — but the idea flitted around in the back of my mind: quiet, but never gone.
As Sofie reached her toddler years, the notion became harder to push aside. If anyone asked, my answer was still a defiant "no." But I remember feeling panicked and a little jealous when my friend Stephanie announced she was pregnant with her third. Then we went on vacation to a tiny island in the Caribbean. At the end of one beautiful, golden day, Peter and I walked down the beach, our 41/2-year-old skipping through the waves with our almost-2-year-old toddling behind her. The sun reflected off their hair and skin, and they were so happy it made me want to burst, and something inside me broke, or opened, or changed, I don't know. I turned to my husband and said, "Are we really done? Are we never going to have a toddler running down the beach at sunset again?" Peter smiled and grabbed my hand. I could tell he was surprised by my question, but open to it. And with that, what had been a seed of a thought grew into a full-blown obsession.
I spent over a year dissecting every pro and con. The pros were easy: a baby! Another beautiful, delicious-smelling, drooling, yummy baby. I thought before I had kids that I loved newborns, and I do love them, but what I
really love is an 8-month-old. A smiling, laughing, sitting-up-and-playing-but-not-yet-crawling-or-walking-so-you-don't-have-to-worry-about-them-eating-a — Polly Pocket baby. The idea of never nursing again, never holding a baby so full of milk she can't keep her eyes open, killed me.
The cons were more complicated. There was the obvious stuff: the misery of pregnancy, the sleep deprivation, the toll on my body, the diapers, baby food, and potty-training. And then, of course, the expense: college, times three! Money was the main reason my friend Julia* decided not to have a third. Right after her two children were born, she and her husband started an education fund for each, but the thought of trying to save for one more felt impossible. How would they even swing a vacation? "Now we can barely afford airfare for four of us, and we can all squeeze into one hotel room," she says. "With another kid, it'd be a whole different ball game."
On top of those factors, I was working three days a week as a network TV news producer, and my life was like a house of cards: If one thing slipped (a sick kid or a babysitter issue), it all fell apart. I kept thinking of the time I was supposed to shoot a story in Ohio and Sofie got a 103-degree fever — in the midst of the swine-flu craze. I somehow got the last flight out and made it for the interview, but it was close, and extremely stressful. How would another baby fit into this fragile infrastructure?
Above all, it was the scary
what-if's that kept me up at night. What if the baby isn't healthy? I had this irrational fear that I was pushing my luck.
Any moment when my brain wasn't fully occupied by work, life, and the two children I already had, that's what was running through it. When my kids were behaving, I'd fantasize about Sofie gently pushing a third baby in a swing, or Talia reading the baby a book. If I was having a rough day, the idea of a third made me wince. It was easier to lean toward no. It was the safer choice. But it also broke my heart.
Ultimately, my husband decided for us. One night, after we'd discussed it for the millionth time and I'd laid out my case against number three like a PowerPointing CEO, Peter said, "I'm scared you'll regret not having another baby. All of your reasons make sense now, but in 10 years they won't. And I don't want you to live with that regret for the rest of our lives." He was right. I started to cry, hugged him, and thanked him for knowing me so well.
At the end of 2010, three days before Christmas, I gave birth to our third daughter. And of course, now that she's here, I can't imagine not having her. Sasha is an incredibly easy baby, much easier than her sisters. Where they would wail from 5 to 11 p.m. no matter how much bouncing, shushing, nursing, and swaddling you did, Sasha sits quietly in her bouncy chair all through her sisters' evening routine. And because I know she's my last, I'm much more relaxed. That's not to say I haven't had my moments — three is a ton of work, and I have lost it a few times. The other day, I warned my friend Sara to rethink having a third. I didn't mean it, really... I just needed to vent. Not that I could've swayed her either way: The decision to have another baby or not, I've learned, isn't always rational.
Early last year, I was at an event for a very well-known female member of Congress, and when she saw my 7-week-old daughter in my arms, she made a beeline for me. I thought she was just doing the politician-baby thing, but the minute I mentioned she was my third, this DC powerhouse asked, "Is it hard with three? How do you balance it with the other two? How old are they? I really want another one, but my husband thinks I'm crazy."
Another mom I know so desperately wanted a third that she made a deal with her husband. "Having three was my destiny," says Rebecca. "But I didn't want our third to be an 'accident' — wink, wink." After much discussion, he agreed to start trying. Then one night, mid-attempt, Rebecca noticed that he seemed off, and stopped to ask what was on his mind. He told her he didn't want to deal with diapers, baths, and nighttime feedings. He didn't want to feel guilty working out or going out with friends. Then and there (in bed!), Rebecca's husband drew up a contract stating his conditions for having a third. Rebecca signed the paper. And nine months later, their third son was born. Both parties have stuck to the agreement, and everyone's doing great. In fact, Rebecca told me recently, "The third's a charm. My husband is so happy, he's ready to go for number four!" Gulp.
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