Maybe Not Baby

Last week, I couldn't stop thinking about having another baby. It started innocently enough: resale shopping almost always involves mild confusion ("There's no way this is a Medium!") followed by realization ("Oh, it's maternity!"), but my most recent trip to Goodwill yielded almost exclusively cute pregnancy finds. I didn't buy anything, but I was sorely tempted. Because we'll probably have another child, and it's always good to be prepared for next time, and a mod-print maternity dress for $4.99 is hard to pass up.

"Next time" has been firmly established in Rob's and my minds as starting sometime around Summer 2010, and I still think that's a good plan. Westley will have turned three by the time the baby is born, he'll probably be in preschool, and we might even have a little bit more money than we do now. But somewhere between contemplating pregnancy duds at Goodwill and purchasing a gently-used pair of orange sneakers for Westley at one of our favorite kids' clothing shops, I started to think that "next time" could be now-ish.

Suddenly, every other sentence out of my mouth started, "When we have another baby..." or "The next time I'm pregnant..." I started looking back at pictures of Westley as a newborn, feeling sad that I'd been too depressed and insecure and disappointed by unmet expectations to enjoy his tiny-babyness. Rob observed, "You know, this is why so many kids born about two years apart." It's true that if I were to get pregnant as soon as possible, Westley would be almost two when his little brother or sister was born. There must be something deep and biological at work here. The more I noticed Westley walking on his own with his arms at his sides (instead of curled up by his chest, T-Rex style) and looking less like a baby, the more having another child seemed like the right thing to do, somehow. I mean, they're just so little and sweet.

Hold me closer, tiny duder.

Last week, I couldn't stop myself from entertaining thoughts about starting all over again with another tiny, precious baby. I was actually convinced it was a good idea.

Then this past Monday, I came down with the stomach flu. I woke up in the early morning shaky and nauseated, threw up in the kitchen sink, and spent rest of the morning crying and dry-heaving over a waste basket. Rob got the doctor's number off the list on the fridge, and polled me about my symptoms.

"Has she felt like this before?" the nurse asked him over the phone.

When she was pregnant," Rob answered. He quickly added, "We don't think she's pregnant."

It really was just the flu, and I'm not pregnant. And I've changed my tune completely. Thanks to this little stomach bug, I remember just how completely awful it was to be pregnant, I'm in no hurry to have another baby again any time soon.

Nothing like a bonus round of morning sickness to squelch your baby lust.

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