Today, I turn 35.
Today is the day that I am supposed to stop wearing skirts that come above my knee. Prude that I am, I don't really do that anyway. My sisters bought me a conservative nightgown for my wedding night and joked about it missing a turtleneck collar.
Today is the day that I am supposed to get a Mom haircut. You know, that shoulder-length bob with the curled-up edges? After all, how many women over 35 have you seen with long hair? After 35, it seems like 99% of women sign a secret pact to hack off their hair, if it isn't cropped already.
This is another trend that I'm going to buck. I can't deal with short hair constantly flying into my eyes. It's just one of those sensory pet peeves that makes me want to squeal in terror, flap my hands as if swatting at a horde of infectious mosquitoes, and jog in place a la Jennifer Beals in Flashdance.
Finally, today is the day when people who know my age will stop asking me if I plan to have more children. After all, word has it that my biological clock will start going haywire at 10:42 p.m., the second I turn 35. At that point, it just wouldn't be tactful for anyone to ask if trying for more kids were on our to-do list. They know that, were I to get pregnant today, I'd be subject to all sorts of nerve-wracking medical tests and that the baby would be at increased danger for genetical issues.
As things would have it, this is one rule I plan to obey. It's less that I fear birthing a child who might be at risk, or that I worry that my energy reserves wouldn't last through a third toddlerhood. After raising two active boys, I am stretched, but I still have some fight left in me.
At the end of the day, Craig and I have to be realistic about what we can handle. First and foremost, we are not large family-types, even though we both come from families with four children. Craig leaves for work early, gets home late, and sees relatively little of the kids during the weekdays. His job is more stressful than most. Me? I am, and never have been, a motherly-mother type. I would fight you to the death for my kids, whom I love dearly. Still, I have to work harder at parenting than those women whom I believe are especially gifted with the nurturing heart it takes to raise children well. Bringing up kids is hard work for anyone, but for some people like myself, it doesn't come as naturally.
To complicate matters, neither Craig nor I have parents nearby whom we can stick with the task of watching our kids while we go to the dentist, bring the car in for state inspection, or simply come up for air when needed. Hiring a babysitter so we can catch dinner and a movie costs an obscene amount. Our neighborhood is heavy on retirees and light on young children. Our church and Andrew's school are almost half an hour away. As a result, playdates and relationships with other young parents, two things that make raising children easier, don't happen as organically.
We want to do the best we can with what we've been given. Yet, a warning goes off in my heart when I consider trying for #3. With two kids, I often go to bed feeling guilty for not having played enough with them, for having lost my patience, or for not having handled a situation as best as I could. I can only imagine how much guiltier I'd feel with three or more kids. I want to be able to teach my children to read, to know what they're doing online, to bake cookies, to shape lumpy Play-Doh sculptures with three arms and one eye. I want to take them to the park and to know where each one is, to load them into the car and to not forget a child, as I witnessed the other day with a large family. I fear that with the addition of another child, I wouldn't be able to do all these things to a level that I could call satisfactory.
Now please don't get me wrong: I'm not equating having more children with doing an exponentially poor job of parenting. I've seen large families succeed. Those children are obviously well-loved, well-attended to, and are thriving in every way. However, I know that what it takes for
us to raise 3+ kids
well is something Craig and I both lack. And knowing that, we're calling it quits on expanding our family.
Someone out there will invariably ask, "What about adopting another child?" This is an equally valid option. After raising both a biological child and an adopted child, I can honestly say that both experiences have been just as fulfilling. If a third child were something we both wanted, I wouldn't rule out adopting again. However, I am turning 35 today, a matter which puts biology on today's docket.
Ultimately, we have to come to grips with the truth that our fertility is not within our control. Our ability to conceive has
always rested in God's hands, not ours. That I have been able to have a biological child is not something that I can take for granted. Even if I were to give in to my mother's wishes and try to conceive a daughter, nothing is guaranteed. We can make all the plans we want, but in the end, the final decision rests in God's hands. Knowing that, I might as well hit "delete" and cause this irrelevant post to combust. But I'm not ready to do that yet.
It could be that God has other plans for us that include adding more children to our family. If that is the case, we'll just have to trust that his strength is sufficient for us - and sufficient for the children who would have to endure us as parents.
But enough heavy talk. It's my birthday. My parents just arrived from out of state, I have a new camera lens to play with, courtesy of Craig, and there is a chocolate cake whose Siren song beckons to me through the seals of the refrigerator door. I could use something sweet to take the sting off of Andrew's earlier comment:
"You're turning 35?! Mom, you're...
old!!!"
