threenewtwo

The media recently confirmed a trend that I have been quietly
observing. Minnesotan families, who have long been the most avid
consumer of minivans, are making the most of that extra space with an
additional car seat. Third babies are hot and as the New York Times said
it: three is the new two.

My oldest is a baby fanatic. And not even two years old, she took me by
the hand to admire a tiny newborn; and in front of the mother tersely
whispered, “take it.” It was time to have our second child, if only to
avoid the felonies.

My husband, Jason, started the third baby lobby immediately after Milo’s
arrival. Fresh from a pregnancy that saw no glow, I stalled. Now 16
months have past and suddenly it is a live question again and one not
easily answered. Two children are expected by this society, almost an
edict. One child is lonely; two is company and three – well? Does baby
three make for a forlorn middle child reading ‘birth order theory’ in his
dark basement bedroom?

When I ask Jason why he wants more children he can only give me a
goofy smile and say, “It would be fun. You know, it would add dimension
to our family.” It is no accident that sitcoms always have big families to
punch up the dynamics, something my family of origin lacked. For that
theory alone, I had always thought I’d have three; but that was before I
had two, before years of sleep interruption and feeling my age in dog
years.

Putting this quandary in an extended holding pattern above our lives is
tempting; but I don’t see that as an option. Having recently celebrated my
34th birthday means I have less than 330 days before my medical chart is
red stamped “Advanced Maternal Age.” Soon, my eggs will officially go
somewhere south of fresh and the odds of my having a child with a
serious health malady go up exponentially. A doctor friend compared it
to a room full of older, pregnant women in a given space and swinging a
dead cat.

While casually musing over third child possibilities, my friend Gina
accidentally sparked an acquaintance into the “Zero Population Growth”
poster boy. He pointedly hit the marks of sprawl explosion, water supply,
green house gasses and every ecological and social impact another
resource-sucking American would have on this planet. I remember
thinking he was right and a pang of guilt bloomed at my own larger family
aspirations – then Gina swung her red hair readying her rebuttal.

With a staccato finger, she clarified that her third child would like her
Midwestern self be educated, attend church, participate in civic duties,
know the importance of social causes, grow up to be active in the
community and understand the privilege we hold as free Americans to
vote… “And oh…,” she finished, “we recycle.” Gina’s van full was going
to give back more than they could ever take and my heart grew three
sizes.
But with two kids already, I understand what I’d be getting into. Too often
my actions have told my children that their joys, small concerns, and
questions – many, many questions, are all secondary to the tasks needed
to keep a household functioning or at least in clean underwear. Tallying
up all the times I have been but a raw, dangling nerve forces me to look
squarely in the eye of that storm and wonder: would I be freely walking
into it?

As all this churns around like sea glass in my brain, I think about my
mother. In 1964, she had a son and then hit a patch of secondary
infertility, though I doubt it was called that then. Zoom ahead and my
parents are consumed starting a business, their first child in school and
my mother trying to get into the railroad union for the health insurance.
And then I turn up, the “Oh My God, We’re Still Fertile Child.”

She hid her pregnancy; the union would have denied her application, but
that wasn’t the only reason. My mother was embarrassed: too old to be
pregnant during an era when, after a certain age in a small town, being in
the family way was “unseemly.” For my mother that age was 33.

Certainly, they are glad to have me, and dear Mom has long gotten over
any lingering awkwardness, but clearly I was ill timed. If they had known
they were going to conceive at that moment, would they have done so?
It certainly ran against all good judgment.

The entire procreation issue is long on the cons, be it your first or third
child. One can hardly explain the motivation without wading into a sappy
swamp located miles away from reason. Most days, I topple under the
load of logic and sway towards the ‘family of four’ status quo. Then
inexplicably there are flashes when it just feels right to have one more,
with no rationale other than it would be fun; you know, add dimension to
our family. In the moment that seems enough.

I know there is no right answer. Either scenario will eventually become
the appropriate one. The only easy way out for us would be to have our
birth control fail…again. Belle was our “sniper baby” waiting for us over
the grassy knoll on a weekend excursion to Mexico. It was a trip I
returned from not feeling well and became convinced I had contracted
giardia – didn’t I throw up once or twice in Puerto Vallarta?

At the clinic I was told, “It’s nothing nine months wouldn’t cure.” I turned
this information around in my head and like a good public radio listener
spurted, “I have Lyme disease?” I’m sure the doctor’s thought-cloud
read something like, “you’re stupid, and pregnant.”

We weren’t ready. Hell, we weren’t even married. Still one doesn’t fully
appreciate the gift of the unscripted until studying the Toyota’s empty
seating.