By Stacy Bronec 
@stacybronec

My best friend and I sit cross-legged in her living room, hundreds of miles from my home. My toddler crawls around the room while her third baby, three months older than my only child, Rhett, runs around the room. 

I clear my throat, “How did you know you were done?” The question comes out of nowhere, but she knows what I mean. I think back to our early twenties when we only worried about what bar we would go to and what guys we would see. She’s seen me at my best and my worst. Only years of friendship would allow me to ask this personal question.

“I just knew,” she tussles her son’s hair as he runs past. “I felt like our family was complete.”

I nod. Grateful to know there’s a feeling to look for. 

***

My midwife is at our house for the standard home visit after giving birth at our Birth Center. Just two days before, I delivered our daughter on a queen-sized bed in a room that felt like a bedroom—a much different experience than the hospital room with my first baby.

The midwife sorts through her bag for her stethoscope in my dining room. Moments before, she took my newborn to my bedroom, so I wouldn’t have to watch when she pricked her heel for the standard blood test. I cried in the dining room, hearing my baby wailing in the other room. Now, Allie is snuggled into my chest, and I breathe in the top of her head. My mom sits in a chair next to me, visiting with the midwife, who I guess is the same age as my mom. 

Once the midwife waves goodbye, I look at my mom, then breathe out what feels like a secret, “I could have another baby.” 

My mom’s eyebrows raise, and she nods toward the baby in my arms, “You just had a baby.”

I smile and nod, looking down at my newborn. “I know,” I say.

***

When my oldest, Rhett, is 3, Allie is 1, my baby fever rages. They are just two years apart, and I imagine tacking on a third baby two years later. Despite feeling constantly overwhelmed and tired, another baby is all I can think about. I know I want another one—and I want them close in age. Sleep be damned.

“If we get pregnant now, the third baby would be two years younger than Allie,” I say, raising my eyebrows at my husband. The conversation had been ongoing in my head, but I realized I needed to see if we were on the same page. 

My husband, Rich, responds, “I think we have enough on our plates.” He adds gently, “I’m not ready.

Months later, life suddenly feels a little easier. I can leave the house for long stretches at a time, not tethered by a nursing baby. The kids spend hours with their dad, giving me windows of time alone at home. 

My baby fever no longer spikes. 

A year later, my husband is ready for another baby, and now I’m not sure. I can see the freedom and what my life would be like not returning to the baby stage. The kids are now 4 and 2 and will be in school in a couple of years—I don’t know if I want to go back to square one.

But another year later, when Rhett and Allie are 5 and 3, we both agree we are ready. I forget about my vision of the perfect age difference. Again, it becomes all I can think about. Naively, I assume it will come quickly—as it did with our first two babies. I never stressed over ovulation sticks or cried over pregnancy tests with them. But I do now.

I track my cycle furtively for months. Each negative test makes me wonder, “Did we wait too long?” 

***

Despite the pangs, pains, and discomforts that come with growing a baby, I welcome it. I grin with excitement over each positive pregnancy test and smile watching my belly balloon over the next nine months.

I try to imagine what it would be like never to experience that magical first moment again—the days we met our babies.

I remember the early morning when the sun broke through the hospital windows when we met our son, our first baby. My initial shock of hearing, “It’s a boy!” melted away when he was placed on my chest. 

Then, two years later, I cried, “I can’t do this!” My midwife sternly replied, “Yes, you can, Stacy. She’s almost here.” Moments later, relief flooded my body as a squishy, vernix-covered baby with striking dark hair was placed on my chest.

Lastly, the surprise of a lifetime, delivering our third baby in the front seat of our pickup. It was just Rich and me, and he caught our baby. Her warm, slippery body folded into mine as I brought her to my chest. 

I ask myself, Do I just want another baby, or do I want another child? 

Babies grow into toddlers who grow into kids. 

“Who do I imagine sitting around our kitchen table in five years?”

I’m not sure.

***

It seems like everywhere I turn, friends announce their fourth pregnancies. I shove my phone in my husband's face, “See, they’re having their fourth!” He shrugs, not influenced by this information. 

Almost weekly, our oldest will randomly start praying, “Dear God, can I have a baby brother? Can you put a baby in mommy’s belly?”

It feels like a punch to the gut. I bite my tongue instead of saying, “Don’t ask God! Ask your dad!” 

***

“Please stop riding your sister’s bike down the hall, Rhett!” I yell. Three sets of feet pound the hardwood floors. Their whoops and hollers match their stomps. I sigh, looking at the clock, two hours until bedtime. My husband looks over at me and exhales loudly. We’re both easily overstimulated with noise.

The big kids were at school that morning, and Rich took our youngest, Nora, with him for a quick trip to the barn. I was alone in the house for the first time in weeks. I puttered around; the only sound was my slippers padding along the hardwood floors. I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. 

Nora will be two in just a few months. Some days it feels like yesterday that we were shocked to see a positive sign in a hotel room in Chicago. Our anniversary weekend getaway, where we spent the weekend thinking it was just the two of us, only to find out we hadn’t left all our children at home. 

Now, I’m slowly gaining back some of that freedom I crave. The minutes and hours I dream of being alone. 

Despite the noise and the times I want to scream because I feel touched out and needed too much. Or when the not quite two-year-old continues to play in the toilet with a plunger. Or how I long to take a shower without an audience—that feeling is still there. Not quite baby fever, but a wondering.

In these moments, I tell myself that two years will be gone in the blink of an eye. I’ll be back here in two years, on the verge of freedom again. But, with another child sitting at our kitchen table.

***

I weigh the pros and cons. There’s the distance we live from town and all the effort required for our kids to get to school. And we haven’t even gotten into after-school activities, which will require me to make multiple trips to town each week, shuttling them to and from practices.

And as much as I enjoy being pregnant, it’s still a lot of work. Do I want to go through labor again?

My husband’s list includes more money, noise, the logistics (where will everyone sleep?), that he’s too “old,” and, I think, his most worrisome fear: “Will she always want another baby?”

***

Despite their normal sibling fights, Rhett and Allie are best friends. They often run to Rhett’s room, quickly shutting the door behind them—slamming it on their toddler sister’s face. 

In these moments, I imagine Nora having her own younger sibling—a brother or sister two years her junior. I envision the kids in pairs—the bigs and the littles.

And I can’t help but feel like she’ll spend her childhood feeling left out. 

***

I imagined feeling a sensation of relief wash over me, knowing that my family was complete—that we were all here. I’ve been expecting this feeling for years, assuming I would just “know.” Maybe some women don’t know. Perhaps some of us have to move on, never feeling done. Will I be one of those women? 

I wonder how to move on from this feeling. Will I wonder for years if someone is missing, that we made a mistake? Will I resent my husband?

Or maybe, that feeling of being “done” will slowly wash over me, with one more sleepless night, another tantrum, and my patience wearing thin. Maybe for me, it’s more like an acceptance than a feeling of completion—a trickle from a hose instead of a downpour.

***

The kids are finally tucked into bed after a particularly tough day. My husband finds me in the dim kitchen and grabs me, bringing me in for a tight hug. 

“I’m sorry, honey. I just can’t say yes,” he whispers. The topic of a fourth baby is at the top of our minds lately. 

I’m not surprised by his answer. Dinner had ended with tantrums and crying—fights over homework and sibling squabbles. 

It was loud. And now, blissfully silent. 

“Okay, babe,” I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. 

I know it will be okay. We will be okay. 

I’m just not sure what okay looks like yet.

Guest essay written by Stacy Bronec. Stacy is a writer from Montana, where she lives with her husband, Rich, and their three kids on their family farm & ranch. She writes about motherhood, marriage, farm life, and often the intersection of all three. Her essays have appeared in Coffee + Crumbs, Motherly, and Grown & Flown, among others. You can find her on Instagram or her website.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.