Family Planning

When you first get married (or maybe even when you're engaged), there is one question you will get over and over and over again: "When are you going to have kids?"

Once you become pregnant and actually give birth to that long-awaited child, a new question will rear its ugly head: "So when's the next one coming?"

Never mind that asking this question is, really, a pretty stupid thing to do. You never know what a couples' journey toward (or feelings about) parenthood may be. At the worst you are opening a deep wound, and at best you're being nosy and putting your friend/relative in an awkward spot.

Still, we all ask the question. I don't know why we do it, but we do it. Maybe because those of us who are parents want others to share in our joy (and our misery). Maybe because we want nieces or nephews or grandkids. Maybe just cause it's the thing you ask a couple. I don't know.

Lately this question has started to wear on me because of the answer that I have to give: I don't know. I don't know when the next one is coming. I don't know if there will ever BE a next one. And when I think of the reasons and compare pros and cons, I end up even more confused and anxious than when I began. There are arguments on both sides that make logical sense, and there are very real, very strong emotions pulling me in opposing directions. It is hard to make sense of it all, and to be patient and faithful.

I am learning of the ripple effect that an unplanned pregnancy can have in your life. Long after we have adjusted to the idea of parenthood, and to parenthood itself, we are still sifting through the rubble of our "plan".

The handful of times that I had imagined myself as a mother, I imagined it after school and work, maybe in my late twenties or early thirties. I had envisioned quitting my job to stay home with one, or two, or maybe even three reasonably spaced children. I pictured myself running errands while they were in school. Maybe doing some gardening in our backyard or taking the dog to obedience class.

I know it sounds really selfish to be mourning the loss of that dream, especially since I have a beautiful daughter and I am one of the few women who is blessed to be able to be a stay at home mom. In this day and age, that is truly rare. But I can't help continuing to feel a slight loss at how life has played out.

Let me explain: I am rapidly approaching a time which I feel like justifies a reasonable age gap between children. Like, if everything had gone according to plan, and we had a three or four bedroom house and a backyard, we might be able to think about filling up another one of those bedrooms. Maybe. But instead I feel overwhelmed by the concept; physically, emotionally, financially unprepared for another child, and a little disheartened by the reality, which is that we are nowhere near that place that I wanted to be, hoped I'd be, when my first child was walking. I may be looking for a job soon, and those extra bedrooms and that backyard seem like an impossibly distant dream.

So, what's the big deal with that, really? Why can't your kids be spaced five or seven years apart. Even ten? I know in my brain that this is totally reasonable, but I guess- I don't know- I had just thought that I could do it at once, that my kids would go to high school together and play games and be friends and that I would capitalize on their overlap. Five years seems like such a long time to wait to basically repeat everything I have just gone through.

I know to a lot of you that seems silly, and controlling, and maybe it is. I know that I can't express in words how I have been feeling, but the lie that you have been told by society- they call it "Family Planning"- is a difficult bubble to have break. I envisioned parenthood being a much clearer road than this, and I had hoped we'd feel prepared to embark upon it. What does it say that 14+ months in I still feel totally unsure about doing it over again?

The hardest part of all is the unknown, the terrible dangling possibility, the door that you can't shut. It's like standing forever at a fork in the road, just staring at the signs. I can't say with certainty that I'll have another child. But I also can't say that I won't. I can't even know when we will be ready to make that decision.

I don't know why the unknown, the openness, is so disconcerting for me. It could be that with so many other unknowns in life, this is just something that I want to control in my own way. I have struggled and struggled with surrendering this to God and have repeatedly failed. Somewhere deep in my heart I've tried to look ahead to the futures that are open to us and they seem right. Part of me says that there is no right or wrong time for children. That squeezing our kids into a bunk bed and living ten more years in this condo can work, and can even be beautiful. Another part of me says that I need to surrender some of my own dreams and plans to be responsible... to be patient and wait until the time is right. I can do this again in five years, or seven years, or ten years, when God tells us that it is the right time.

Lastly, there is the part of me that wants to close the door on this possibility and pour all my love and ministry into the amazing family God has already blessed me with. This idea is the one that confuses me the most, because that suggestion sends a shock of overwhelming emotions cascading through my body: disappointment and relief; grief, but also a beautiful and attractive sort of finality.

The more I think on this, the more I wonder if grief may always be a part of this process. There is the initial grief and loss of things not going your way, and there will always be the grief of choosing not to have more kids (no matter when you stop). That is a weird kind of grief- like mourning someone you have never met- but also, in a way, it is kind of like mourning a loss of self, a loss of the ability to carry life or to mother again. I envy women who have the opportunity to "try" to get pregnant. I can't imagine the joy of getting the news that you are going to have that baby you have dreamed and hoped and prayed for. It must feel so different to walk around with that pregnant belly full of someone you are just dying to meet.

Just so you know, I'm aware of how crazy (and maybe even offensive) that sounds. I know there are women everywhere who are dying to be in my shoes, who have tried for years or have lost children in the womb. I can't imagine that either, but for my part, I feel like with Kisa I was robbed of some of the joy and expectation of pregnancy. I want to experience that. But that in and of itself is not enough of a reason to have more children, and when I think that Kisa's may have been my only experience of pregnancy, I feel a sense of loss.

Without a doubt, parenthood has shaken me and reminded me, again and again, that God is in charge of me and not the other way around. However, none of it is for the reasons I had imagined. To think that something as personal as motherhood is actually completely out of your control (despite what we may call our contraceptives) is the biggest knock to my pride I could have imagined.

I struggle with how to end this long wave of emotion because I cannot tie up any of my loose ends. I can't pretend like sharing this has clarified anything, rather I feel like it has rubbed me raw. Instead of hiding this I have chosen to share what I think many will find silly, or crazy, or over dramatic. In writing I can recognize my own failure to communicate the gravity or depth of my feelings, but I cannot reconcile the two.

So with that, I'll end.