Before Sonny was conceived, Willy and I had a lot of discussions surrounding adding another member to our family. I always knew I had wanted more than two; it’s just what has always felt right, instinctively, on a level that cannot be backed up by any sort of logic but instead is felt solely on an emotional level only the one feeling it can comprehend. I knew that should we not go on to have another baby that I would feel a void, a longing, and I feared the resentment that likely would fill in the holes.
Many of our discussions ended in frustration; Willy protesting that life with the current two is crazy enough, all he can handle, and me, saddened by the fact his reality did not match mine.
Our parenting structure kind of broke down. We didn’t support each other in the same way we had in the past. It was only in hindsight that we can attest to much of the acting out during this time, on the kids part, was in direct connection to the fact we were no longer standing strong together.
I always saw the argument for a third as a matter of perspective. That life as it is today and the hardships that come along with the caregiver stage of parenting are temporary, Willy always saw it as starting over again; hitting reset, and adding to what is / was already a chaotic struggle. Albeit the chaotic struggle we all endure and on some insane level seem to miss just as soon as the dust starts to settle.
It was a battle no one was going to win. He’d tease me on the ‘good days’, when the boys were our ideal versions of themselves, by holding up three fingers and locking eyes with me as if to say ‘in this moment, and only in this moment, I do want a third’. I’d question the seriousness behind such a statement and we’d launch back into the same discussion we’d beaten into the ground so many times before.
It takes two to tango and tango we obviously did and when I found out I was pregnant right around my birthday, I, of course, was ecstatic. Willy shared in the excitement from time to time but I also sensed a twinge of an ‘you won, I lost’ attitude and sometime around the start of the second trimester, I was feeling alone. I was beginning to wonder if adding a third to the mix meant anything to me if it also meant losing a part of my husband. I felt like I was carrying the weight of ‘I asked for this so I have to deal with the repercussions, whatever the repercussions may be, on my own’ on my shoulders.
We bickered more than usual. We fought a lot over the birth plan, his anxieties over the first two births flooding back in. I remember we went down to San Diego to tour a hospital that offered both a birthing unit as well as a labor and delivery unit. We went out to dinner afterward and fought the whole time. Me, thinking I had found the perfect middle ground, him, still not satisfied with involving a midwife in our care on any level. I agreed that night to go the OB route, threw it in his face that I wasn’t comfortable with any of it and blamed him for making decisions out of fear that involved my body and the baby I fought so hard for.
Perhaps I’m painting a picture of an unhappy couple. We weren’t. Not at all. Life continued on in between all these events and though our everyday was impacted on some level, the extent to such wasn’t apparent at all at the time. If anyone would have asked us, we both would have said we were happy. And we were. But we were also on edge.
I can’t remember how it came about… if there was a final straw or if it was that I just knew instinctively we needed to regroup and prepare in a more serious way to welcome our third baby, but whatever it was landed us in therapy with a therapist a dear friend had seen for years and highly recommended.
And. It. Was. The. Best. Thing. We. Could. Have. Done. For. Our. Relationship. As in, we still talk about how great it was for us and we still feel the freedom that came from unearthing all the resentment and anger and bitterness that, at-the-time, we thought we were so neatly sweeping under the rug when in actuality we were more like a tractors at a construction site building piles of dirt that eventually ended up crumbling and suffocating us.
I talked about the regret I felt in putting the both of us in a position where our own relationship was negatively affected. How I didn’t realize that ‘winning’ in one battle would mean ‘losing’ in another. Willy talked about how much of his reluctance to bring another child into the world was associated with the birth process and his anxieties related to our past experiences with birth. Any and all issues brought up were discussed and through none other than the vulnerability associated with sharing with a professional, laid to rest.
All this to say, therapy is where it’s at.
For most of us, when we hear that an individual, or better yet a couple, is in therapy, we think the worst. We think that life must be caving in on them. We think they’re weak, unable to handle whatever they are dealing with on their own. We think therapy is the last stop, the last chance to pick up whatever morsels of the broken pieces that are left.
I think it’s stigmas like these that prevent many from seeking outside help. It’s my hope that in sharing our experience that you too may come to see therapy as an outlet to helping yourself the same way you may help a friend. That consulting a therapist is a way of practicing and nurturing love for yourself and for your relationship. That it’s okay to admit to not being whole. And to see therapy not as a weakness but instead as an attempt to help build a stronger understanding. Because all we’re ever really striving for is to be the best versions of ourselves, right? And don’t we owe it to ourselves and our partners, too? I think so.
In any event, Sonny was welcomed into this world by two eagerly waiting parents. And he’s brought so much joy. These days Willy jokingly pokes, “You couldn’t have possibility known”. He’s referring to how special Sonny is (to us, anyway). And all I can say is, “I knew. I just felt it”. And we laugh, knowing that we not only got through it but that we also buried any lingering resentments.
If you, or a friend, needs help I hope this post encourages you to seek the help you need. And if you’re in the Orange County area and are in need of a great recommendation for a therapist, email me. Look. No. Further.
I was having a conversation with a friend the other day who was seemingly trying to convince me that I needed / wanted a 4th child. Don’t get me wrong, there was definitely a time I did. Part of me would consider it if Willy had any desire but I digress because this morning I was looking out our kitchen window at our backyard; the little patch of grass that filled what was once a pool covered with rusted scooters, broken skateboards, pots I’ve washed out with intentions to put plants in that still sit inside our living room slowly dying, an upside down plastic pool that I’m quite certain all three boys have pissed in at one point or another. And that’s just the grass area, never mind the makeshift side yard fence that I’m always nervous Jimmie will get through, the beach umbrella that has been carried by recent storms from one end of the yard to the other, the random holes where worms have been vacated from their homes. The thought crossed my mind that our home is too big for me to keep up with. I felt old in my thought process; commiserating with retired folks who size down because they no longer want the ‘burden’ of keeping up; the ‘burden’ all us young folk work so hard to obtain. And somewhere in the rush of getting the kids fed and ready, the connection of it all came to me; I truly don’t think I have enough in me to give another child. Like I’m barely filling cups as it is – both literally (as in they drink all their milk before I even put the milk away) and figuratively. Most days, I’m just treading water; hoping plants don’t die before we get a chance to pot them, making sure the good bikes are inside when it rains so they don’t rust, and making sure there’s enough milk in the fridge to get us through the next morning.
