We’re trying to have another baby.
This won’t surprise anyone who’s been paying attention but yes, we are actively trying, and while I’m sure there are those of you who’ll think I’m nuts for wanting to add Yet. More. Chaos. to my life, we’re excited and it feels like the right decision. So yay for that.
Trouble is, we’ve never actually had to *try* before.
Thing #1 was born nine months after our wedding. Thing #2 was born nine months after his brother’s second birthday. I’ve never had difficulty conceiving or trouble carrying. I’ve been so very lucky, and I know this. I have no right to complain or even be worried.
We’ve been actively trying since Christmas, and so far, no dice. Every month the week before my period is due I get my hopes up even though I tell myself not to, and my boobs get sore and I feel queasy in the morning, and then it turns out it’s just PMS again.
Once again this weekend, on my road trip with Thing #1, my period arrived right on schedule and why didn’t I plan that better? Because when you find out that you’re not pregnant AGAIN and your chosen activity is cuddling your two month old nephew, WELL. That just sucks. And while I used to think I had a lot of empathy for people who have difficulty conceiving, I now think of those people I know who tried for years and years only to not ever have a successful pregnancy and I just want to call them all and tell them how truly sorry I am for anything assholish I might have ever said.
I was locked in the hotel bathroom yesterday morning talking in hushed tones to hubby on my cell phone, and he was trying to make me feel better. He was. He was explaining all the things that have changed since the last time we got pregnant – his diabetes and the weird cocktail of meds he’s on now; I’m older, he’s older; I’m heavier than I was; the last few months have been fairly stressful.
Hold the phone. I’m heavier than I was? What was that?
The whole four-hour drive home I thought about it, while an exhausted & Gravol-filled Thing #1 slept in the back seat and the baseball game unwound over the radio. I *am* heavier than I was when I got pregnant the second time. There is no getting around that. But I seem to have convinced myself that I’m not significantly heavier. And that’s a problem, because steadily over the last six years I have been gaining weight, and I keep setting my target weight at higher & higher numbers.
And I’ve been here before, ye gods, don’t I know it. I was actually doing really well this time a year ago. And then I lost my job and started the dayhome, and my grandad got sick, and I haven’t been eating so much as I’ve been opening my mouth and breathing in food.
I thought about what a meal means to me these days, and I had to admit I don’t even taste my food for days at a time anymore, because I’m always rush-rush-rushing to shovel it down as fast as I can. The first helping disappears down my throat and my poor brain can’t register that it happened. The second helping is the one I actually chew.
As I drove down the road in tears I thought to myself my god, do I really want a second helping of dinner more than I want another baby?
It stops now. Enough is enough. Starting at supper last night I decided not to change the content of anything I’m eating, but rather I made a conscious effort to put the fork down and take my hand off it between bites. I served myself smaller portions to see what would happen. It seems so small, but so far, it *is* making a difference. After supper, breakfast and lunch I felt full after only one moderately-sized helping (and at lunch there was actually food left on my plate). I kept my snacks small and of the raw-vegetable variety, and I’ve been drinking lots of water. It’s only been 24 hours and I’m alarmed actually at how badly I’ve been treating my body for the past several months, because other than the weather-related headache I’m nursing I feel physically better than I have in a long time. I’ve been poisoning myself with food again, when I thought I had that problem licked, when I was sure it was behind me this time.
Food addiction is a complicated one, because unlike an alcoholic, you can’t go cold turkey (mmm, turkey) and avoid that which makes you ill. I don’t want to diet, I know they don’t work for me. I don’t want to change the content of what I’m eating, because it’s actually not terrible for me as long as I eat sensible portions for my age & activity level. I just want food to be a genuine pleasure again, one that is savoured, in the hopes that I can be healthier both for the kids I have now and the one I hope I can have in the future.
In re-reading this it occurs to me that Hubby *may* be coming across as critical. He isn’t – he was telling me an unpleasant truth that I needed to hear. Also, by the time I got home he was realizing I may have been thrown a bit by his laundry list of possible problems, and was both apologetic & supportive. We’re in this together, he and I.
Even if it is kind of aggravating that the ten pounds I’ve gained in the past three months apparently came from him, because he’s lost that same amount, and is now only ten pounds off what he weighed when I met him in university. Smug bastard. 😉