By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd

We didn’t mean to leave the door open. It just sort of happened, like when you run inside the house to grab a sweater. The kids do it all the time—they run in to grab their water bottles, their hats, their stuffed animals for some kind of party on the trampoline. No harm, no foul, with the exception of an occasional fly sneaking in.

But now? At this point? 

The door has been open for two years. 

Depending on the day, the open door can be alluring or terrifying. Sometimes I hear birds singing, a welcome breeze blows through the house. Other times I see critters running by; rain’s in the forecast. 

One thing’s for sure: nobody is taking the blame. Who left this door open? He shrugs. I shrug right back. Seems like a communal accident. 

***

We decided my husband wouldn’t get a vasectomy following the birth of our daughter—our “last baby”—until we were sure we did not want to have any more children. We wanted to be positive. Certain. 100% confident this was it, the final family roll call. 

We had planned to revisit the conversation on her first birthday, which is right around the time I started to feel unsure, what with all the feelings and the sentimental birthday video filled with clips of her babyhood slipping through my fingers like sand. A few weeks passed. We circled around the conversation like vultures inspecting prey, neither one of us ready or willing to make a move (yet). Then Covid hit. The world seemingly paused. We tabled the conversation, along with everything else.

And now, here we are, an entire year later, mere weeks after her second birthday. The door is still, technically, open. It’s more like a sliver at this point, but every day I look at it, wondering who is going to be the one to make the first move. Time is running out; the pressure is mounting. We’ve got to shut that door or fling it wide open. This will-we-or-won’t-we dance is getting exhausting. 

But how do you decide something so ... final?

On the one hand, closing the door feels honorable, right even. We’d be doing what we said we’d do. We can move on to the acceptance stage. We can stop all the what-ifs. On the other hand, every time I see light shining through that open door, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a twinge of hope. It’s small, but it’s there—an undeniable longing to become a mother all over again, just one more time.

***

“Can you believe she used to not exist?”

It’s a line I say no less than a dozen times a week. Everyone says once you add a child to your family, it’s hard to remember life before them. There’s quite an age gap between our boys and our daughter, and while I can still remember life before Presley was born, it also feels like she’s always been here, always been part of this family. 

In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined this specific version of her. A daughter was always merely a figment of my imagination, and a blurry one at that. Her smile, her antics, her personality and facial expressions—I couldn’t have envisioned any of it until she was real. When I think of her genetic blueprint being perfectly knit, I am bewildered at the thought of every tiny chromosome that had to perfectly line up in order to make her, exactly.

For the past year, our minds have been rifled with dread, anxiety, heartache and grief over the state of the world. Yet there she goes—clumping around the house in my shoes, dancing to Baby Shark like she’s at a rave, rummaging through my bathroom drawer looking for clips and combs, brushes and bobby pins, all of which she affectionately calls “haircuts.”

Presley’s middle name is Joy; it couldn’t possibly suit her better. The line is getting old, but I keep saying it anyway: “Can you believe she used to not exist?” 

It’s enough to make you want ten more. 

***

Sarah Bessey once called it learning to live with the ache.

“No more nursing quietly in the night. No more flour sack of milk-drunk baby bliss. No more gummy smiles. No more tiny diapers. No more baby clothes. No more crib. No more baby wearing. No more new baby smell … I am starting to think that, no matter how many children we have, no matter the reasons why, no matter how old we are, when you’re done having babies, we always carry The Ache.”

I remember reading about The Ache when I only had one child, and feeling a sense of looming dread knowing that would be me someday. Knowing that I’d feel this way, that I’d be a wreck, that I’d be writing these very words with tears streaming down my face while my “last baby” sleeps in her crib across the house. Am I really already here? Is it over? Am I already learning to live with the ache? I thought I had more time. I didn’t expect the grief to set in this quickly.  

The ache feels too real, too soon, and I’m starting to second-guess everything. I can’t seem to accept the idea that every glorious part of the baby phase is officially in the rear-view mirror, getting smaller and smaller behind us as we move toward a new season of parenting.

“But don’t you think you’d feel this way no matter what?” my husband asks, “Don’t you think you’d feel this way if we had a fourth? Or a fifth? Where does it end? I feel like you could have ten more babies, and you’d still feel sad when that part was over.”

Maybe, I tell him.

Sarah Bessey went on to have one more, though.

***

Four months into the pandemic, we started talking about moving. I don’t know if it was restlessness, boredom, an identity crisis, or a weird combination of all three, but the discussion somewhat came out of nowhere. We spent close to a month belaboring the decision, praying, begging God for discernment, weighing pros and cons, staying up till midnight talking through every possible scenario. At the height of our self-created crossroads, I’m the one who started to panic. 

This feels eerily similar. Only now, it’s as if we’re staring at two different houses trying to decide which one we want to live in for the rest of our lives. That’s a lot of pressure on a house. Undeniably—both homes are beautiful. We’d be blessed and grateful to live in either one. One has a better backyard; one has a gorgeous fireplace. One offers an abundance of natural light; one features an updated kitchen. 

One house has three children.
One house has four.

***

My husband, ever so practically, tells me all the things we’d need. A bigger car. Another savings account. We’re already outgrowing this house, he reminds me. We already sold all the baby stuff.

I know, I say with a sigh. Of course I know. I’m the one who sold it all. Piece by piece, listed on the Facebook Marketplace. I shipped all my maternity clothes off in a box to a stranger from Instagram who bought the whole lot. I didn’t think twice about it; I still had a newborn in my arms. It’s easy to part ways with a dream when you’re still living in the dream. It’s like finding out your favorite perfume has just been discontinued, but you have a full bottle at home. Sure, you’ll be sad when it runs out, but you don’t have to think about that right now. You’ve got plenty of time.

He reminds me how full our life already is, how tired we already are, what a long year we’ve had with both of us working from home, caring for three kids around the clock. As if right on cue, Presley toddles into our bedroom with my phone charger draped casually around her neck.

“I a doctor! I a doctor!” she tells us, beaming with pride. 

We both smile, impressed by her imagination. Before we can say a word, she’s already off and running through the open bedroom door.

I look at my husband and remind him with a whisper, “She used to not exist.”

Photo by Lee Brown Photography.