A chapter of my life is closing...

"And yet, and yet . . . in a woman’s heart there is always room for one more child. I know so many women – some far beyond menopause – who live with this regret. There is a deep-seated longing to know how the recipe might turn out next time." from Four richer, Four Poorer

My Poppet is growing up too quickly. She has always developed at a fast pace, but since she turned 2, the speed has quadurpled. If I ask her how old she is she states "THREE" while glaring at me with a steely eyed determination, as if daring me to correct her (she is actually 2 years, 3 months). She tells me is a big girl now. She won't let me carry her or coddle her. She is fiercly independent and determined to keep up with her older siblings. She gave up her bottles before Christmas. The crib was gone when we got back from New Zealand. She sails through the "big kid" transitions with barely a backward glance. My desire to baby her is thwarted over and over again. She simply won't have it. I do snatch the odd cuddly moment, but I know that I am running on borrowed time.

I find that there is a profound grief that comes with watching my children grow. I miss my babies. I miss 15 month old Spinner who hugged and kissed me with reckless abandon. I miss tiny newborn Willow who calmed the instant she heard my voice. I miss 5 month old Poppet who blew never-ending raspberries to her immense satisfaction and our amused glee. I look back and get the feeling that I didn't appreciate it enough while I had it. I was too tired, too cranky and too preoccupied.

I had thought that the answer might lie in having another child (Mr. 3x3 and I have seriously considered having a fourth) but I've found that ultimately I recoil from the idea of MORE. I am already spread too thin. I know in my gut that I couldn't cope with another (my head and heart sing different songs, but my gut speaks the truth). So instead of a fourth, I grieve as I transition from being a mother of babies and toddlers to being a mother of school aged children. A significant chapter of my life is ending and whilst I look forward to the freedom and adventure that comes in the next stage, I feel rather wistful about what I'm leaving behind (which is, as is often the case, easier to feel through the misty eyes of hindsight).

There are, of course, other less noble reasons for having another child. Over the last 8.5 years I have gradually lost my sense of self. I have put my own dreams and ambitions on hold for so long that I no longer know what they are. I went with the flow and ended up in amazing place, but now I have overstayed my welcome and I need to move on. I no longer know the purpose of my life - at least as it exists beyond my children. I have become lost in the wildnerness of nappies and formula and toilet training (not to mention therapy and developmental delays). Having another child would mean putting off the inevitable necessity of rediscovering myself and my aspirations. It means I can conveniently focus on surviving the chaos of baby and toddlerhood, with my energy sapped and my brain wilted. It means I can leave all the big, hard questions for another 3+ years ... and while in many ways it is tempting to do this, ultimately I don't think I can.

"Perhaps it's not too late to go back for one more after all. You can rationalise that it’s not a good idea, yet this is irrational territory. The door is shutting on a powerful experience, and it’s still mighty tempting to go back and fling it open." from Four Richer, Four Poorer.