on 3168

is a sperm donor that has made us two stupidly good looking kids. (Funnily enough, he was our third choice.  Thank the universe they were fresh outta picks #1 and 2!)   I should be really content with that.  And mostly I am.  I always thought that two would be the *magic* number.  But after having Lucy, I didn't get that "I'm done now" feeling everyone else talks about getting.  I didn't have that "I'm never going through another birth" feeling, either.  Both of their births were amazing, wonderful experiences that left me flying high, though exhausted, I felt peaceful and strong.  Lucy and Oliver challenge me, teach me about the world and fill me with love every day.  Amd I think I'm halfway decent at this childraising business.   So maybe more babies should come for L.and me.   

On the flip side, I'm no spring chicken. The thought of being referred to as "advanced maternal age" for the better part of nine months is enough to make anyone pretty freaking cranky.  And then there's the post-partum anxiety bit.  It was worse with Oliver than it has been with Lucy, but it's still hard to deal with some days (perhaps another day's worth of blogging in there).  And what about those dark days where I want to shoot myself just so I can go the hospital and talk to another adult??   Or the really dark days where I feel like a shitty mom,  or am riddled with the anxiety that I will never again be valued in the way that paid employment affords you.   That I am wasting my education and eroding away at my smarts.  That me staying home for so long will lead to our financial ruin.  Etc. etc. etc.  So maybe more babies shouldn't come for L. and I. 

Though I've been thinking about it here and there, I haven't been too fussed about it.  Lucy is only 3 months old, after all.  We have two vials left of 3168 in storage, and we can always order more, right?!  Turns out, not so much.  I called the sperm bank yesterday to let them know about Lucy's birth (they like to keep track of these things).   And just out of curiousity, I asked how many vials they have left of good old 3168.   One.  One vial.  He has left the province and is no longer donating.  Shiiiiittttttttttt. 

It took us/me a very long time to get pregnant with Oliver.  We're talking countless vials here.  With Lucy, it was a little easier, somewhere in the four/five try vicinity.  But we only have two vials left.  Even if we shell out and order up that last vial, anticipating that we might want to try again, that still only leaves us a three try window.  Not impossible, but also not exactly probable either.  

All this pondering; all this hemming and hawing about whether or not to have another child, and I, we, may not even have a choice in the matter at all. This is far, far, far more of a pisser than the notion of being called 'advanced maternal age.'