When the miscarriage happened I fully anticipated waiting two, three months and then trying again. No biggie. But things changed. David and I had to be honest with each other and the truth is that we were both terribly frightened of that third pregnancy. Frightened of what a third child would mean for each of us individually and as a couple. The emotional impact, the financial burden, the physical demand. For months my mind and body has been in a tug-of-war. On any given day I either am longing for a baby or can’t imagine adding yet another demand onto our busy family.

I don’t expect you to understand this. I’m sure their will be many of you reading this thinking that I am selfish, shallow, or have my values screwed up. That’s fine. I’m sure many of you are thinking, that when you have babies you can’t think of those things, that the money will come, we all find a way, God has a plan, blah, blah, blah. Yes, you would be right, but I’m right too. An adult thinks about the consequences of their decision, and believe me I have done nothing but think about this decision.

I’ve spent the last two days packing up baby stuff and selling it. This has been challenging for me. It is the “what ifs” that drive me crazy. What if I hadn’t miscarried? What if it had been another girl? What if I was 8 months pregnant right now? Sometimes the answers are tender but mostly I have begun to realize how ill prepared I am to handle a third child. And then the tears come – sometimes small tears squeaking out the edges, sometimes sobs.

Why I cry is hard to say. Disappointed that I’m physically not strong enough to have three children. Disappointed that I started so late in life (I was 34 when I had Lucy and 36 with Max). Sad that this chapter of my life is ending. I will never be pregnant again. I will never see my own child being born again. Now that I know how to do it right I won’t have a chance to do it again. And part of me can’t help but think that God knew David and I were done. The decision was truly never mine to make.