This morning Noah and I played our game of Gimme Kisses. I tell him to gimme kisses, please. He shakes his head no, and then I swoop in for a kiss anyway, while making a big, exaggerated mmmmmmmmmmmmmMWA sound. Then he giggles.
This morning I stopped playing after a few kisses. He started humming. "Mmmmmm." He reached up and put his hands on my cheeks and leaned in.
"MWA!" he shrieked, covering my face with kisses. Then we both giggled.
Yeah. I gotta get me another one of these.
Two things I said I'd never do again:
1) Have another child.
2) Take Clomid.
They went together pretty nicely, I thought.
But like a lot things I swore I'd never do (suburbs! yard! skinny jeans! hotdogs for lunch!), I changed my mind about Number One. I want another baby. WE want another baby.
The five of you who read the ClubMom blog know that Jason and I have been trying for awhile now. I don't know how long, exactly. Maybe since Noah's first birthday? Maybe even before that? I seem to remember using the BlogHer swag bag condom at some point, but honestly, we've never really used birth control since Noah was born.
"It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," Jason said once about a second pregnancy, while I pondered the calendar in a minor morning-after freakout and looked at him, like THAT'S BITCH-CRAZY TALK, HELL YES IT WOULD BE, OUR CHILD STILL HAS POOPS THAT SHOOT PAST HIS NECK.
But then I gradually came around to his way of thinking. No, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In a lot of ways it would be pretty great.
Which brings us to rethinking Thing Number Two. Stupid Number Two.
The 10 of you who have been reading all along might remember that I took Clomid for a few months with no success, waaay back in 2004. Those were pretty much the most miserable months of my life and I went completely batshit crazy afterwards, with depression and panic and I was just all around a Big Hot Mess. (I can't even bring myself to link to the entries from that time, even though they don't even begin to really express just how bad things got.)
I'm not sure if I've ever really spelled out my fertility issues here, so for those just joining us: I am annovulatory. I do not ovulate on my own, ever. I get periods -- usually every 45 to 50 days, but sometimes much more infrequent. In 2001 (2002? god, am senile. where the fuck are my keys?) I got two periods for the entire year.
We don't really know why -- I don't have PCOS or thyroid problems. I had an eating disorder all through high school, but I'd already had irregular periods for a few years before my anorexia developed. So I float around in the pool of Unexplained Infertility, watching my cycles get longer and more whacked out by the month. It's not insurmountable and it's not the end of the world -- but it's enough to color and complicate your reproductive plans.
After upping the dose of Clomid a couple times, I managed to ovulate, but didn't conceive. Then I got sick and we decided to take some time off from the baby-making and try again in the new year.
Then, of course, I fucking got pregnant. Like a normal human being, without Clomid or an IUI or even a damn thermometer. (The people who told me it was because I "just relaxed" are all buried under the floorboards of our old condo, thankyouverymuch.)
That pretty much brings us to now. I hoped that having Noah would "fix" everything. Like he was this 9-pound, 15-ounce Post-It Note that said HEY LOOK! WAY TO GO ON THE FULFILLING OF YOUR PRIMARY PURPOSE, OVARIES!
But no, everything is the same as it has always been. Which means we have two options:
1) Wait and see if we get lucky again.
2) Try Clomid again.
Stupid Number Two.
I don't know what option we're going to go with, honestly. On the one hand, I'm sick of thinking about this and marking tiny yet ultimately useless X's on the calendar. I'm sick of wondering if we'll get lucky next month or next year or ever.
On the other hand, I don't necessarily feel ready right this second to have another baby. Sometimes I still feel like I just HAD a baby. That I still HAVE a baby. That it's too soon and too much and maybe we should just let it happen when it's meant to happen, like Jason always said pre-Noah, and it pisses me off that he was right because I don't necessarily believe that things always happen when they're "meant" to happen, I mean, look at every reality TV show in the history of reality TV shows where my favorite contestant got voted off too soon.
On the other hand, Jason and I are both much, MUCH younger than our siblings. In a lot of ways we were only children. Which wasn't bad at all, oh no, but...I don't know. I think I'd enjoy watching Noah grow up with a sibling close to his age and wonder if we shouldn't get a little aggressive before too much time passes. I worry he'll be spoiled or lonely on his own, blah blah typical family planning mindfuck.
On the other hand, Clomid made me crazy.
I wonder if it would be as bad this time, since maybe I would be (shut up) more relaxed, since I have Noah and the knowledge that I CAN get pregnant and CAN carry to term, and honestly, I don't necessarily feel like not having a second child would be any big devastating thing. I mean, we want one, but if you told me tomorrow that our family was complete as-is I'd still feel pretty damn lucky and content.
On the other hand, I might only think that because deep down, I'm secretly pretty smug and confident that we'll be able to have a second baby eventually.
On the other hand, I am fresh out of other hands. I'm talking in circles and boring even myself. And I find myself pretty fascinating. Look! My belly button is squishy.
I look at his face and know that he is enough. He is more than enough. And yet because he is enough, more than enough, to fill my heart and life with such mind-boggling amounts of joy, I cannot help but wonder what it must be like to have that joy times two.
I cannot help but to take his face in my hands and cover it with kisses, while silently praying gimme baby. Please.