I was never entirely sure I wanted kids.
A Midwesterner, I planned on working at a glossy magazine in New York, working long hours to please the boss and partying hard ’til the sun came up. (I wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw, Manolos and all.) In my mind, diapers and pacifers didn’t seem to fit into that lifestyle.
Still, I figured I probably would because that’s what most people do. And I’m too selfish to let my slighty wacky, but oh so lovable genes die off.
So when I got pregnant with my daughter (a surprise pregnancy) at 20, I figured I was done. Fulfilled my duty to my parents to give them a grandbaby, so I was all set.
Once my daughter was around six months, however, I began to hear the whispers: “When is she going to have another one?” “How much longer is she going to be the only child?” “Are you really thinking of stopping at one?”
I wanted to know what type of crack these people were smoking.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my daughter. Quite the opposite, in fact. My love for my daughter was all-consuming. Her moods controlled my moods. If she was happy, I was happy. If she was upset, I wanted to die. I couldn’t imagine having two (or more) kids, each with the ability to control my happiness, to tear my heart into several different directions.
I wanted to be a good mom, but I felt I was barely getting the job done. I struggled almost every step of the way during her first year of life. First with breastfeeding (like most moms), then with taming her extreme bouts of ezcema, then with finding suitable childcare once it was time for me to go to work full-time. I figured, let me focus my energies on just her. I’d be sure to get better at being her mommy. It was like cramming for the SAT every single day. “There’s no way in hell I’m doing this again,” I thought to myself.
Two weeks after her first birthday, surprise, surprise. Pregnant again. My first thought? Honestly? “Damn.” It was like getting promoted to CFO before your first full year as an junior accountant.
After I calmed down and got myself off the ledge, I began to think. Should I get my tubes tied? I mean, I can not have any more kids. It would mean the death of me. Really.
When I approached my doctor about this, he hesitated. “I don’t want to tell you no,” he said. “But I will say that I don’t recommend women get their tubes tied. If you regret it, it’s very hard to get it reversed.”
“But I don’t want it reversed.”
“But you might.”
“But I won’t.”
“But there’s a chance that you might.”
Around and around we went for the whole 10 months I was pregnant. At 22, it was assumed that I couldn’t possibly know if I was done having kids. A good argument, but if I’m old enough to have a working uterus, shouldn’t I be old enough to decide when it should retire? And if I wanted it reversed later, I kept telling him, that’s on me. I made the decision – I’d have to live with it. I pleaded with my doctor visit after visit, but his stance remained firm.
After I had my son, my doctor inserted a five-year IUD. It’s supposed to be a godsend to women, but all I know is I feel like I’m making Always’ stock go up – as much of their product I’m buying in bulk these days. He assured me it’s 99.8% effective, but all I want to do is talk to that .2 percent about how they got knocked up.
I would still love to get my tubes tied, and am considering having the procedure done next year. I honestly have my hands full with the two children I have, and since I’m not willing to stop having sex with my husband (the only surefire way to avoid getting pregnant), I’d like to try the next best thing.
Maybe they’ll consider me old enough at 24.