After I had given birth to my son almost a year ago (he'll turn one on 13 November), I had sworn that I would never ever give birth again. I would adopt all subsequent children. Labor, appropriately named, was the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life. The subsequent bleeding and all sorts of gory details also didn't appeal. I had wondered why, just why, would anybody have multiple children. Oh, you'll get over it, all my older women friends who do in fact have more than one kid said knowingly, as they cradled and cooed at my son and I was grateful for the rest. You'll want to have another one again someday, they say. Not likely, I'd thought, and made great, great effort to write down all the painful details of my labor.
And, yes, I am still concerned... About possibly undergoing antepartum depression again. About all the fears I had while carrying my son, and now with the added factors of China's horrendous air quality and food safety issues.
But I strangely feel drawn to have a sibling for my son / a new member of our small family. I already have two names -- one for a girl, one for a boy -- picked out, in both English and Chinese. Pretty crazy, huh? It really is, because I loved my freedom. Motherhood has shown how selfish and self-involved I used to and still long to be a lot of times. Like tonight, after spending the entirety of the day taking care of my son at home, just him and me, making dinner, and doing laundry and dishes after putting him to bed all by myself while my husband lived the professorial life that I once led, I was sad that I couldn't attend an expat event that I probably could have gone to if I was willing to leave all the dirty dishes undone until tomorrow.
Maybe if I have a better support system (instead of me being all alone taking care of the newborn/baby/toddler while my husband continues to work) next time, things would be easier?
This mystery will unravel in due time.
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