I’ve done it. I’ve put the baby gear up for sale. The Bjorn. The exersaucer. The infant carseat and the bumbo chair. Taken photos, written reassuringly about a pet-free and smoke-free home, and hit “post ad.” The pile of gear, cleaned up for the photo op, now sits in the middle of the dining room awaiting eager buyers, ignored by the 3 year old and used only as a hand-hold by the baby, who toddles by haltingly on the way to her next task, oblivious to the detritus of her infancy.
I think I’m done. I’ve still got frozen embryos from the last round of IVF, but I’ve got two happy kids, 33 years left on the mortgage, a constant contented fatigue and a rapidly greying head of hair. Two children are probably enough. Our little family of three feels about right.
But. There is a lingering longing. Could I have had a third child, if I were richer? Married? Younger? And what if I change my mind? How long can I possibly wait before knowing my decision to have two, and only two, is final? Can I wait until the kids are in school, when I have a chance to catch my breath, before finally deciding about a third? With frozen embryos, the clock’s ticking is slightly subdued. The snooze button pushed, as it were. But too old is too old, frozen embryos or not. Am I there yet?
The question isn’t just about me. One of my closest friends, 49, is trying to have a second child. Her firstborn, like mine, is three. He was conceived with her own eggs when she was 46, through IVF. Like me, she is a Single Mother by Choice. She drove me home from my second IVF egg retrieval, the day Anna was conceived in a petri dish. She blames my easy experience with IVF for sparking her desire for a second child. Since then, she has undergone another IVF, but without luck. Now she is considering donor eggs or embryos, comfortable with the notion of building her family in whatever way she can. Her own mother is not as comfortable. She worries about her daughter’s age and her stamina, though my friend is as fit and active, healthy and serene, wise and funny as anyone we know.
Age is subjective. Mental. Emotional. As young as you feel, as old as you fear. But age is also biological, and if being pregnant at 40 or 45 or 50 isn’t daunting enough, attending a high school graduation ceremony at 70 is. And age is financial. Last week I finally crossed the last thing off my post-partum to-do list: I opened college savings accounts for the girls. One each, a nominal amount deposited monthly, investments chosen for their moderate risk. Saving for college, at the expense of saving for retirement. I can’t do both right now, not with the childcare expenses and the mortgage and the life insurance premiums and the, you know, food and diapers. Suze Orman would disapprove – she favors retirement savings over college savings, since you can borrow for college but not for retirement. But I have a company pension (so far), existing retirement savings, and a steadily appreciating house in a city where there is never a housing slump. Still, the finances of midlife mothering are daunting. My own parents retired young, in their fifties, house paid off, kids done college. Starting motherhood late means I may well have to work past 65 to meet all our goals, to hang onto the family home even when it is an empty nest, to have enough money to help my parents, if they need it, or my girls, when they do.
But more than the finances, closing the door on more children is a stark statement of age. I like being a new mom, able to talk about pregnancy or breastpumps or sleep training, the merits of a particular kind of stroller or diaper, the folly of food mills and baby sunglasses. I’m not yet so far removed from it that I have to say, “Oh, when mine were little, we did this…” or “The guidelines have changed since then, but we always…” I can still describe baby poop without batting an eye. Once I move on, I leave that club of new mothers that I waited so long to join. My friends with 10 year olds tell me they don’t even remember these baby days, sometimes. They can’t quite recall what was so endearing about their baby’s drool or their toddler’s screech. They have no idea what they did all day with these tiny people – their lives are now about Xboxes and preteen angst. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave the baby club. Now that Anna is walking, officially a toddler, I see moms with new babies, tiny newborns, and feel a twinge of jealousy. Am I really past that? Have I really left that behind, forever?
Well, probably. I probably have. Looking on the bright side, everyone in my house sleeps through the night, holds their own spoon, and climbs the stairs on their own. I still bear the brunt of dishwashing and teeth brushing, but I have big plans to delegate on both of those fronts within the next few years. Maybe I am ready to move on.
In the meantime, I take photos of every age and stage, knowing how fleeting all of it is. And I sort the baby gear, and sell off my old favorites. Because having one January baby and one June means the hand-me-downs are off by a season, and the footwear dilemma is getting ugly. Baby needs new shoes. C’mon Craig’s List. Baby needs new shoes. And when she’s done with them, I’ll box them up with the keepsakes, because we won’t be needing to hand them down to anyone.