We’re Having Another Baby...And I Have No Idea If I’m Ready

I first started to feel myself changing my mind somewhere in the South of France this past spring. As much as I want to point to a specific place or beautiful view (such as this one) that triggered the shift, it probably wasn’t that. If anything, it was more of the honeymoon vibe of the entire trip, with its languid three-hour lunches and dramatic cliffside drives, that made me feel like Dave and I had finally made it out of more difficult times and would continue making it through. For years, I hadn’t really known if that would be the case, and the uncertainty of our relationship, combined with the continuous toddler chaos, had deterred me from realistically considering having a second child. But there was something about that trip that had allowed me to zoom out and see the big picture. Life is long and ineffably short at the same time. This is my person, this is my family, and stalling out of fear isn’t the answer.

A few months later, I went for a run and popped into the pharmacy based on nothing but instinct alone. The first time I had seen the positive pregnancy test with our daughter, it had sent a shock wave through my system that had then evolved into a four-month spiral over the momentous life change. (And yes, we had technically been trying, but just as a slightly reckless experiment that had only made sense in the mayhem that was Covid.) This time around, the surprise was softer and didn’t stir up nearly as much emotional turbulence; I had been quietly mulling on the idea of another child for years and had way more time to prepare myself. While there were many conversations about logistics and finances over those first couple of weeks, the overall feeling in our home was that of gratitude and happiness. (Speaking of finances, a post on child-rearing costs in the U.S. to come!)

This all started to shift at the end of the first month, the first wave of nausea rolled in. We had come to New York for what was supposed to be a work trip for Dave, two weeks of French camp for Sasha, and a culturally rich time of playing UES mom for me. On the first morning of Sasha’s camp, I found myself keeling over at the sight of the groceries I had diligently ordered to put together her lunchbox. Over the next two weeks, I disintegrated entirely, with Dave having to take Sasha uptown while I stayed home, working in bed, incapable of leaving the house until 1PM. Two weeks later, during a long-awaited Hamptons sojourn, shit truly hit the fan as I ran to the bathroom after each $40 lobster roll. I went to Urgent Care and got a Zofran prescription, which solved the sickness but gave me continuous stomach issues and guilt trips (there is a rare chance of it affecting the fetus). I gave up on looking for remedies and set myself up for the waiting game, assuming I only had a few weeks until it would pass, like it had with Sasha.

By the end of September, midway into my fourth month, I was eight pounds down from my normal weight, and sh*t was getting dark. I couldn’t enjoy my child; I dreaded meals; I didn’t want to see friends. As I made my way into the fifth season of my binge rewatch of Sex and the City (my only solace of those long days), I wondered if I would be one of those women who is nauseous their entire pregnancy, and how in God’s name they survived that.

Around week 17, I finally felt the clench of daily nausea start to ease, slowly being replaced by an animalistic hunger. I want to tell you it has been smooth sailing since, but let’s just keep it real. And the reality is, this entire pregnancy has been a clusterf*ck with me at the center. I’m hormonal, irritable, and often wake up exhausted after eight hours of sleep. I’m uncomfortable about the changes in my body and find it impossible to get dressed, let alone feel remotely attractive. I’m scatterbrained to the point where I recently threw in a pair of lacy Natori underwear along with the spare clothing in my daughter’s backpack. I’m moody and short-fused with everyone in my family, and constantly feel like a terrible mom. Just the other day, my partner (a wordsmith) told me “it’s hard to love me through my negativity”.

I can’t wait until March when the baby comes and my body will be my own again, but I’m also nervous about what’s to come. I’m scared of the sleepless nights, the never-ending household chaos, the loneliness of early motherhood, and all the other challenges that are inadvertently coming my way. Most of all, I’m scared that I will be too selfish to want to handle said challenges, because I’m spoiled by my life over the past year. The travel, the regained independence that comes with having a child in preschool, the autonomy over my body—all of that is about to slip away, and I’m mourning it already.

In my weakest moments, I think back to something my on-and-off therapist once told me. “People think the main reason to have a second baby is to give the other child a sibling, or to ensure themselves a big family and grandchildren in old age,” she said, adding, “It’s not. Siblings aren’t always friends, and you can’t predict anything about the future. The only reason to have a baby is if you have an excess of love to give.” I remember looking at her and feeling so dissuaded, because I didn’t feel like I had it then—and, frankly, I don’t always feel like I have it now. There are days when I barely have enough love to give to the people around me, let alone a tiny human who will need me with every inch of his being. (Speaking of which, it’s a boy! Boy, oh boy!)

And then, I think back to that moment almost four years ago, when a nurse handed me my five-minute-old daughter. Staring at her, the only thought crossed my adrenaline-laced mind was, “Now I know why people do this over and over.” The love came pouring in, and the endless doubts that had surrounded my entire pregnancy were gone. While I can only hope for that same bond with my son, that memory often consoles me, subtly reassuring me that it will all fall into place.

While pregnancy is clearly not my forte, there have been beautiful parts to the past six months as well. There are the little kicks that I feel in the evenings or in airplanes that gently remind me that, on the other side of the road, is a baby boy who is going to bring so much to our lives. There’s my daughter’s excitement, the way she runs over to say hi to my belly at some point of each day and sings songs to the baby every night (Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star meets Cocomelon is her favorite). There are the happy grandparents and Dave’s candid joy over having a son. (He can pretend all he wants that he would have been impartial to any gender, but the guy is suffocating on estrogen here.) Finally, there’s the fact that this pregnancy seems to have woken up an almost dormant desire in me to write, to publish, to connect with every single one of you. In a way, writing about my experiences has become my best tool for navigating them, making me feel like it could be the beginning of a new creative start. All around me, I see women with multiple children having fulfilling lives and careers at the same time, a difficult and delicate dance that I resolve to take on as my next challenge.

After all, isn’t this what this entire time is? A challenge, a fresh start, a brand-new life chapter that I get to write however I damn please, as long as I put my mind to it? Just like with anything new, being scared is the most normal emotion to accompany it—and yet, it’s never a valid excuse not to give it your best. If there is anything that crossed my mind repeatedly during those beautiful French drives, it was, “Lose the fear. You have one life to live.” And so, I’ll be right here living it, eternal chaos and all.