Saturday morning, in those early hours when your subconscious churns like a cracked out gerbil on a squeaky wheel, I dreamed that I was pregnant and it was the worst thing short of an ALS or cancer diagnosis that could've happened and I cried and cried and gnashed and tried to accept the news as best I could. I peed on multiple white wands and and everytime: the double pink line.
"I'm just now getting my life back!" I wailed.
This is exactly how I would react if I did get pregnant. Not that it's likely or even especially possible at this point, but I know a few women who are having third children, even as their first and seconds are closing in on ten-years-old. For them it seems to be planned and good news. For me, as much as I adore Max and Claire, it would be disaster. I would hate it.
You see, it is all I can muster to be "on" constantly for my two. It takes every sliver of strength and emotional energy I have. Back when I imagined a family, I didn't know. I didn't realize what it would steal from me. You can't until you do it.
When I woke up on Saturday morning, I gasped, "Oh my God!" and told J. my dream, breathless with relief that it wasn't real.
The past decade hasn't been without its beauty (just a few minutes ago I was saying goodnight to Claire and she reached up and began sliding her thumbs across my eyebrows because she knows this relaxes me), but I really do feel like I'm just getting my life back and I never, ever want to return to early parenting days.