He Needs a Friend?

It's happened.  My sweet mama friend, whose lovely son is only three weeks younger than the little angel, called me today to tell me she is indeed again blooming with life.  Her fertile soil has been seeded.  She's preggers.

The rest of the conversation involved my new job and how neither of our children were really, oh, walking, even though every other child on God's green earth within three months of their age is (I know, exaggeration is a key personality trait of mine, but I was excited to talk to another mama whose baby prefers crawling to Darwin).   Then we talked about the pool, and how we should really get together and get the sunscreen-slathered tykes in the water while we attempted to sun our white Midwestern skin.

The whole time I was thinking how terrified I would be to be pregnant again right now.  Or maybe ever.  I know, this will probably inspire a rash of "oh, you have to have two, everyone does" sorts of comments, but most who know me well know that my beloved and I have been ruminating since January about how maybe, maybe we wanted a singleton.  A nicely socialized and unspoiled singleton, but a singleton all the same.

The sister-in-law whose son is the little angel's "twin," (they were born one day apart), is preggers. Two of my sisters-in-law have sent the "another grandkid coming" e-mail in the past few months.  They are both on their third child.  One is a SAHM, the other has a high-profile DBA job.  One pinches pennies, the other will have three in expensive daycare. Both are rather laid-back mothers, which I personally think would come with the territory for large broods.  I admire each and every one of them, also the ones with two, for their stamina. Of the seven other families that help comprise my beloved's nuclear, there is only one other that might, just might, stop with one.  That sister-in-law did not enjoy her first pregnancy and is in the midst of getting a doctorate, not that I think either of those facts really influenced her much more than her own opinion. 

So now I wait for the other shoe to drop.  The other friends to call.  The guilt to begin when someone asks where the second angel is.  My mama friend told me she is happy to be pregnant because her first son needs a friend.  While I know he is wildly popular and hardly lacking in playmates, perhaps he is more lonely than the little angel.  (cue guilt music) I imagine that she kicks off a day at the Emerald City ready to get away from those ridiculous brats and play uninterrupted with her own toys for a while, basking in the undivided attention of her already-feeling-bad-for-putting-you-in-daycare-kind-of parents, but that could just be what I wish she is thinking.

Still, I have only recently (in the past five years) started paying more attention to what I really want out of life.  What I really want at 31 is to reconnect with the me who I was before I became a wife and mother. I don't want to renounce these new roles, but rather dig back into the third closet from the left and drag out a personality trait that, while now unfashionable, always made me feel beautiful.  I remember when I used to have goals for myself as well as for my family.  I don't know if I'll have the energy for me if there are more angels.  Selfish or self-aware?  Probably both, maybe neither.  I think the little angel is going to be the only angel for a while.  Maybe forever.  And yes, there will be judgements, but they would've done that anyway.