This discussion has been had in our house a hundred times.
We’ve always said we’d have two. Always. But now? I’m not so sure.
For those of you who have been reading for ages, you will know that Finn and Tate didn’t come easily. The getting pregnant process was an arduous one. Finnegan was conceived on Clomid, Tate on a combination of FSH and Femara. The whole process was met with one obstacle and hurdle after the next.
Then, there was the whole matter of Dave having to put me into an ambulance. That, my friends, is a difficult thing to watch for anyone. He can’t do that again and I? I understand it completely. What he went through was far worse than what I did. Sure, I was the one who felt the pain, but that isn’t the worst of it.
The worst is that he watched it all and remembers things with a non-morphine induced perspective. He had to answer questions about which circumstances it would be ok to revive me and whether or not I had a living will or medical power of attorney. That isn’t an easy task when it’s thrown in your face.
He’s done, that Dave of mine. He has squashed the idea of a third like a bug with one little phrase, “no more fertility drugs.” Trust me when I say, I hear him.
But I also feel a little tug tug tug on my heart strings, a whisper asking me if I’m really done.
How do you know for sure? Did you end up with the number of children you had hoped for? Did you and your spouse ever disagree about that number?