PTSD, or something like it

Okay, I will admit to being a drama queen by calling it PTSD. I know that's too strong a term, but...

A few days ago, my co-worker brought in her new baby, about two weeks old. Seeing a tiny newborn again brought out an unexpected reaction in me. It wasn't melty desire; it didn't make my ovaries ache. No, it was, uhmm, dread. Fear. I sort of stood there with a half-smile, half-grimace on my face, absentmindedly clutching my chest, asking her how it was going (the answer: hard). I totally didn't expect that reaction from myself. I went bounding down the hall, all excited to see her, and then stopped as though there was some Evil Baby Force Field around it. Cue the tightened chest.

Then last night I started reading Vicki Glembocki's book, The Second Nine Months. I've never read anything that hit closer to home, that described so accurately how I felt when I first had Sascha. She even uses lines verbatim that would run through my head, like "this is my life now." By the time I read the part where she was struggling with breastfeeding and admitted to herself that she was doing this for herself, not the baby, and she got in the car and cried about it? It was too much for me. I went into the bathroom and sobbed quietly, doubled over, face buried in a towel. Her descriptions were so spot-on that they were painful. I'm only two chapters in.

So here I am, still sitting on the fence of One Child Or Two. Seeing that newborn again, hearing that cry... Reading about the isolation and fear and difficulty of the whole experience... I can only compare it to a stint in a Turkish prison. Physical pain (constant, through entire torso, for about two months)? Check. Can't go anywhere, and you don't see your friends anymore? Check. Torture (= no sleep)? Check. Relentless? Round the clock? Feels like time stopped? Check. Don't understand the language (crying) or how to respond to it? Check. Grooming is sorely neglected? Check. Maybe you starve in a Turkish prison, but you feel compelled to diet after you've just had a baby when you discover there's suddenly a semi-deflated blimp hanging onto your skeleton.

Ladies and gentlemen, the miracle of life.

I just don't know if I can do it again. And of course in the book, like in my life, she encounters plenty of women with more than one child who just sigh and go "yeah, it's hard." But hard isn't the word. The English language doesn't have a word for what it is. And if it's the same sort of "hard" across the board, then there is only one conclusion: I suck, and am completely not cut out for motherhood. I want so badly to see the upside of it, to know why other women go back for more (and more, and more). Even now, when Sascha is in a great phase and I'm crazy about her, I'm not sure that I've recouped my losses from the past three years yet.

So do I have another? It boils down to this: two children = short term Turkish prison, long term glad I made that decision. I know I would be glad. One child = short term happy, long term regret. The answer is obvious, I think. But facing that prospect, the short term? Makes me shudder and dread.

But at least I would know to fill my freezer with casseroles this time around.

In other news, I am a single parent this weekend. Nick's grandmother died, and he is flying to be with his family for the funeral for four days. I am sad for their family, but I know it will be wonderful for them to have some time together. There is actually something nice about funerals. It's real quality time. On my end, I'm gearing up for an interesting weekend. I know I can handle it, even if she throws tantrums for four solid hours like she did last night, but it's going to be interesting. I am hoping that there will be a night when she can't sleep and I'll have to take her into my bed for a girls' sleepover. Ahh, that kid.