On three months with Delilah and maybe last babies
Delilah hit thirteen weeks today. My baby isn’t a new baby anymore. Not technically. I can’t keep calling her newborn. The 0-3 month clothes are bagged up, ready to be given away. Many of the 3-6 months are going that way too. I didn’t keep the clothes last time because I wasn’t planning to have any more babies. This time I have no plans. It just doesn’t make sense to move house with lots of bags of someday maybe’s.
Though I do think she’s likely our last. The thought of another pregnancy fills me with dread when I consider being that tired for that long ever again. I’ve been left this time with a stomach divarication for a souvenir. Hopefully with exercise my muscles will meet again but in the meantime, I have the strange sensation of not feeling like my insides are completely secure. I’m reaching for pelvic floor exercise videos recommended by a friend to ward off any long term effects of having carried and birthed my three beautiful babies.
On the other hand, this has been the easiest newborn period we’ve been through. We know how we do the baby thing, we’re settled enough not to worry about much and we’re extremely grateful that nothing major has come up. She’s now awake more, laughing, chatting, starting to reach for things, an active presence in our lives. Memory of life before her now has to be conjured up – it doesn’t come easily.
There is a part of me that sniffs her hair, gazes at her perfect sleeping face and thinks there’s something wildly addictive about babies.
It’s easy to swing back and forth. I did have a moment when Delilah was crowning where I very distinctly thought, “Why am I doing this again? I am never doing this again!” But a few days passed and Laurence, utterly loved up with this new baby, hinted that it wouldn’t totally be out of the question to have another. To which I instantly said it would be out of the question only to seconds later think, “but maybe?”
He’s back to saying three is fine but I don’t feel the need to be definitive either way. To say she is definitely the last and to paint every baby memory in “the last time” would unnecessarily depress me. Leaving the possibility hanging in the air actually gives me peace that I don’t mind if she is our last.
I seriously wouldn’t mind if this were the last time my hair falls out postpartum, though. It’s taking grit not to chop it all off this time.