I never wanted to have the discussion about whether or not to have more children again. The fact that it even came up again was an accident. Well, it wasn’t really an accident. We knew what we were doing. We just figured the vasectomy probably made things okay even though we didn’t have confirmation yet. Wrong. So we had to talk about it again.
This could be my last chance to have another child. That test that confirmed he had some little swimmer remnants left could’ve been just that. Remnants. Our only other option at this point is for me to take Plan B. Plan B doesn’t abort an already active pregnancy (it pretty much says don’t bother trying on the box if you’re already pregnant, so that reassured me because I had misgivings about taking a pill that might abort an existing child). The pill prevents a pregnancy from happening the same way regular birth control does, but it’s an emergency contraceptive. But, I thought, maybe I want another baby. He definitely doesn’t, though. We clearly cannot afford another one. We’re swimming in bills and barely made it to this paycheck. Medical debt is choking us to death. I don’t know how long we can continue taking Squeaker to Occupational Therapy since they won’t accept the Flex card (they will only take cash or check) and I still need to call to check on reimbursement and haven’t had time. Based on money alone, having another child spells lunacy.
This morning, Squeaker had a massive meltdown in the car because he forgot to bring a toy to school. It has become part of his daily routine to bring a toy for recess. He insisted that I give him a toy, but I had nothing for him. When I got him to school, he fought me as I unbuckled him, kicking and hitting me. I begged him to stop. When he got out, he slammed his knees on the ground and screamed at the top of his lungs. The school psychologist, who I had just worked with in a meeting for the first time yesterday, happened to be coming in at that time and let me know he had some papers for me. I nodded as I continued to struggle with my child, who then started trying to bite me. It was not until one of his classmates came by and his father greeted Squeaker that he would move along on the sidewalk and walk with me to his class without biting.
I walked in tears, thinking about Plan B. He had already tried to bite me before we left the house and bit his little brother instead. It would be foolish for me to try for another child. Honestly, I know my limits. I’m at my limit almost every day. This morning, I left my son’s school barely holding it together. The school psychologist caught up with me to hand me the reports that I needed and asked me if I was okay, asked me I was sure because he didn’t believe my response, and after I insisted that I was, indeed, okay, I walked away blinking back the tears.
Once I got to my car, I called The Manager and made sure he planned to purchase the Plan B, and I cried all the way to work. I cried because my heart breaks for the child that could have been. The child I know that I can’t handle because I’m just not capable of handling the extra stress.
My day at work simply reaffirmed my position. I already have two children, one of which has Autism, and I work with special needs kids, most of which have behavioral problems this year, and then I come home and I deal with more behavioral challenges on the bad days, which would be today. Today was the worst case scenario. I feel like I got beat up all day long. Physically by my child this morning, verbally by my children at school, and then again physically by my child when I picked him up after school.
Could my body, my mind, or my soul even make it through a pregnancy under these conditions? If I had to do it, I would. I would somehow. I don’t know how, but my children are the most important part of my world, so I would find a way. I just wouldn’t consider the stress involved healthy. Then, I’d stress about whether he/she developed normally, had enough clothing, socialized appropriately, etc. And we’d stress about the extra money and sibling rivalry. And I’d have one more child to feel guilty about ignoring when I get so busy at work that I have to bring it home. I’d have to wonder if I’m good enough for three instead of just two.
Plan A was to see what happened and let fate decide. Plan B was Plan B. In the end, I went with Plan B. I mean, I guess it’s up to fate either way. What will be will be. I just wish I didn’t have to think about it at all because it hurts in a way that perhaps only a mother knows.