When we first got married, we wanted a passel of kids. And by that, I wanted 8, and he wanted at least 12. We were going to be the large-brooded, homeschooling, homesteading Mormons that everyone would look up to. I would be a stay at home mom with a blossoming baking side business. Our kids would be smart and clever and good. We would be understanding and have great relationships with each kid (who we would have plenty of 1-on-1 time). In short, we would be perfect in every way.
We got pregnant rather quickly after getting married, and though that we were on our way to our goal. We started dating in April, engaged by May, married in July, and pregnant by September. We thought it was funny that 6 months after we started dating, we were expecting.
But the pregnancy ended soon after we found out about it. Technically, it wasn't a pregnancy at all, and my body just thought I was pregnant. (Blighted ovum) When I went to the doctor for some anti-depressants, he sent me to a shrink for counseling. Turns out I had undiganosed bipolar, borderline personality disorder, and ADHD.
Still, we kept trying for kids. Every month I would cry, because I felt like a failure. I began to hate pregnant women, and would look away if I saw one. I was convinced I was worthless because we couldn't reproduce. Couples that had gotten married after us were spitting out baby after baby after baby. We were looked at with pity in church, and in our small social circle. I cried a lot during this time. Baby clothes, diaper commercials, pretty much anything baby related would reduce me to tears. We felt sure we were going to get pregnant again, soon, so we stocked up on baby stuff. A crib, changing table, clothes, Bumbo, cloth diapers, baby gates...it's now sitting in the garage, because I can't bear to get rid of it. We even painted a room to be a nursery.
Somewhere between year 1 and year 3, that changed a bit. We had time to get to know each other, I got medicated, he got a better job. We realised we had tons of free time, extra money (because I worked), and enjoyed hobbies outside of the house.
But still we felt...empty. We still wanted kids. So we looked into foster care. Finally, we got them. And here's the irony. After all that crying, praying, screaming, hating and wishing for kids-now that we have them, I find myself missing the childless life. I miss my free time, our TV marathons, cooking whatever I wanted. The kids (who are OK kids most of the time) have court on Dec 19, and a part of me hopes they can go back to their mom.
Neither my husband or I are sure if we want kids after these guys. My answer changes daily. There is so much that I want, and I'm not sure if kids fit in. I wonder if we'd be happy with forever kids. I wonder if we'd be happy without kids.
It's ironic, because I spent so much time hoping for kids, and now that I have them, I wonder how soon they are leaving.
And still, I feel like a failure.