Why We Didn't Have More Children

Sometimes you think you are over something and you are not. Really, it is your brain trying to convince your heart that everything is alright. Or it might be the well-meaning loved ones in your life trying to soothe you and help you cope, who convince you it is all okay. It may even be the insensitive or cruel people who somehow believe your pain is unwarranted, who insist you should just get over it. But what if you pretend, you go through the motions, you lie to people and say you are okay and act like you are over it, but you're not? What if on a given day when you haven't given it a recent thought, you turn on the TV, open Facebook, or pull up an email, and Bam! It smacks you right in the face as if to say, "Yeah right. You thought you were over it? Wrong!"

My husband and I have been a couple since we were teenagers. We married after dating for about 7 years. It would surprise few to know we were sexually active before we got married (judge if you must, but really?). I am sure our son can even deduce that. We were generally responsible about our sexual activity; birth control, regular doctor's visits, and monogamy. We always, or at least I always prided myself with our peers, our son, and even the youth I worked with over the years, on the fact that we only got pregnant once, and we planned it. We proved it was possible to be sexually active and responsible.

In November 1997, after almost two years of marriage, my husband and I decided we were ready to try to start a family. I was relieved to be off birth control, and we agreed to just let things happen. No counting days. No ovulation kits. Just good old fashioned marital intimacy whenever the mood hit us. We carried on like we always did, just without contraception. As women usually do, I knew my cycle, and though I wasn't counting days, taking my temperature, or scheduling interludes with my husband, I did anticipate the time of each month when the question would be answered. Are we having a baby? There was little frustration or anxiety, I knew these things took time. I tried to resist the urge to take a pregnancy test, knowing if I waited just a couple of days I would either get my period or not.

For the first few months I did. Then one day in March I just got a feeling. This is going to be it. I just know it. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that I thought I could feel myself getting pregnant as some women insist they can. It was just a feeling, probably caused more by hoping than knowing. I picked up a test from Walgreens a few days before I was expecting my period and went out of town for a couple of days on a trip for work. I made a deal with myself that if my cycle didn't start while I was away, I would take the test as soon as I returned.

It didn't. So I did. And I was.

Four months after casually trying to conceive, I was pregnant with our first child. First. I can say first while telling the story in past tense, because that's what Jacob was to us when he was born, our first baby. Pregnancy was amazing. I loved the way I felt. I enjoyed watching my belly swell, and the wonder of a growing life inside me. I experienced a little morning (ok, all day) sickness early on and sciatica towards the end, but I had a healthy pregnancy and I loved being pregnant. On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, 1998, he was born. Our son Jacob came into our lives as perfect as any healthy new born baby can be. When I went to my OB for my six week check up, she swiftly asked, "So, you ready for another one?" It was her way of leading into the discussion of going back on birth control because the months following childbirth are often a woman's most fertile. Ever heard of Irish twins?

After getting over the fact that I was physically unable to nurse, I loved being a mom. I felt comfortable in my role, and I had a great deal of support. My own mother told me I was much calmer and more confident than she ever remembered being, and my friends seemed to think I was relaxed and down to earth in my parenting. I matured as a woman and developed a sense of self-assuredness. I knew I was a good mom. So it was only natural that within about 3 years I was ready to grow our family. My husband and I decided to try and get pregnant again. Though we hadn't set concrete plans, we were pretty sure two children for a family of four was what we wanted. I had already stopped taking birth control and now we would like the first time with Jacob, let nature take its course. We continued to nurture a healthy, intimate relationship and expected within a few months, another baby would be on the way. 

Not this time.

By the end of the year, I was starting to feel frustrated. Plenty of sex. No baby. My annual exam was normal and I talked to my doctor who encouraged me to use an ovulation calendar to track my cycle. I was in good physical health and i wasn't quite thirty. There was no reason to believe there was any problem. "You're just not hitting it," she would say referring to my ovulation window. Meanwhile, well-meaning people in our lives were starting to drop hints- some subtle, some not so much. They would say playfully,

When are you guys going to have another baby? 

Jacob wants a brother or sister to play with.

How about a little girl?

We could only respond with a half-hearted chuckle and shrugged shoulders. After while it took everything in me not to cry on the spot. Smiling and saying, "We're trying," made me feel violated and inadequate. It was difficult enough to deal with our inability to conceive, but comments from other people just made matters worse. For months we continued the same routine. I would start numbering the calendar the day I got my period. I questioned whether to begin at the sign of early spotting or when true flow began. I thought maybe I was counting wrong and that's why we weren't conceiving. We tried every recommended pattern of sexual activity to increase the probability of conception, and still nothing. Every 28 days I would get a lump in my throat when I had signs of PMS, and by day 30 I was crying with the start of my period. Alone in my bathroom trying to hide my sadness from my husband, and everyone else. I just couldn't understand why nothing was happening.

By now Jacob was getting ready to start kindergarten and we experienced some stressful events in our family, followed by some changes in our careers. We stopped worrying so much about it because maybe it wasn't the right time anyway- at least that's what I told myself. Continuing with a healthy marriage and sex life, and a lack of focus on trying to conceive we carried on with our lives. I worried despondently that this was it, there would be no more babies. This is when the guilt started. I worried about Jacob being "an only." My parents wanted more grandchildren. My husband would love to have a Daddy's Little Girl. And what about me? Had I swaddled my last newborn, changed my last diaper, snuggled my last baby? I was starting to mourn the loss of something I never had... a second child.  These feelings would lead to even more guilt. How dare I feel sorry for myself. Some women can't have any children at all. Shame on me. Isn't Jacob enough? Guilt about guilt can be a heavy burden to carry.

A couple more years went by, all the while we kept trying. (I haven't been on birth control since around 2000). More changes brought a move, some financial challenges, and a little boy who wanted a sibling. Every purchase of a car, our home, furniture, was done with the consideration, what if we have another baby? In 2007, I started to realize that Jacob's tenth birthday would be the following year. It was now or never. If I didn't get pregnant by the time he was ten, my husband and I agreed it would be too many years between them and it might be time to give up.

By now I was working at a local elementary school where the big joke was if you don't want a baby, don't drink the water! Baby showers were as common as faculty meetings, and we were always celebrating another teacher's pregnancy. Maybe this will be it, I wished secretly and desperately. We decided to go full force in our effort. That meant check-ups for both of us. Him for healthy sperm count and activity, me for possible Fallopian tube leakage. While I was waiting in the doctor's office to discuss the results, I picked up a magazine from the table in front of me. You know the one with stacks and stacks of scattered magazines. I picked up the parenting magazine with the cutest baby on the cover, and while I was skimming the table of contents I came across an article titled: Why Can't We Have Another Baby? My heart rate increased slightly as I turned the pages one by one, trying to locate the article.I was scared I would find all the answers I was looking for.

Turns out there's something called secondary infertility; a couple's inability to conceive a baby, even though they've had at least one child in the past. According to the article and several others I have read since, secondary infertility (SI) affects anywhere from 1 to over 3 million couples. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or devastated. For many, SI is caused by age or other health factors, but for others it is unexplained. My doctor confirmed mine and my husband's test results as normal, with no indication that conception should be a problem. Essentially, we were experiencing unexplained SI and we could keep trying or start considering interventions. We talked about it quite a bit, my husband and I. Neither of us is a big fan of pharmaceuticals, and we agreed I wouldn't take fertility aiding drugs such as Clomid. This was a personal choice for which I would never criticize someone else, one way or the other. We briefly discussed invitro fertilization and ruled that out too because the financial drain with no guarantees, and the likelihood of multiples beyond what we were prepared for. We came to the decision that risking the financial stability of the family we had was not something we were prepared for, and for us it would have been a financial risk.  So with that, it was over.

As with many couples, it was a more emotional corner to turn for me, than it was for my husband. Though he would have been equally excited for another baby as I would have been, I think he had already begun to let go of the possibility. I said it out loud, and we agreed we were okay. But inside I was heartbroken. Each of my best friends from childhood had now birthed three children. Women all around me- family, coworkers, friends were all having babies. I was dealing with the shame and guilt I had over the jealousy and hurt I felt with each announcement, trying to be happy for them, wanting to cry for me. I started to worry and still do, about my son being alone when my husband and I die. It sounds foolish, I know. I expect he will be married with a loving family of his own by then. But the thought still saddens me. With all the love and support of my husband and my friends, no one besides my sister will feel what I feel on the day I lose one of my parents.

Over time, the sting has somewhat subsided. The ache has dulled. My husband encourages me to anticipate the next stage in our lives when we watch our son become an adult and build a family of his own. A time to enjoy some freedom again. We marvel at our ability if we choose, to re-settle down as seniors wherever Jacob lands because there is no split loyalty to another child. We feel lucky to be able to afford most anything to Jacob, in time and finances, because we only have one child. He is an amazing and loving kid who makes us feel proud and fulfilled as parents.

But every now and then, a pregnant friend, the baby of a colleague, my niece and my nephews, all remind me of my latent desire for another baby. There's a little sadness deep inside me that few understand. And now, my first child 16-years-old next month is clearly my last, and I am making peace with that. As my husband once said to me in so many words, and as I shared with the family, friends, and the congregation at Jacob's Bar-Mitzvah, maybe G-d recognized that we made such a perfect baby the first time that it became clear we couldn't possibly make another one so well. So G-d just stopped here, with Jacob. I like that theory, and I'm sticking with it.

Nothing Like an Old Friend

This piece was started on September 27, 2014 and completed October 25, 2014.

We're on a road trip. A short one; only a couple of hours from the west coast to the east. We're flashing back to a time in our lives when our hair was a lot bigger, and our waistlines a little smaller. A time when we needed the rock and roll that flushed through our veins as much as we needed air to breathe, and the raw passion of teenage love fueled and energized us. It is all about the 80's today. Pop, rock, and other Decade of Excess has-beens trying to hold onto the last bits of fame living in the memories of middle-aged fans, nostalgic for a visit to their own younger days. We're off to the 80's in the Park Festival in Melbourne. But for us, this time, it's not just about the music. The more interesting story lies in the company with which we will be sharing the concert experience. It's a sort of double date, I suppose, which further adds to the sense of nostalgia. Cue the blurry-edged fade and flashback music...

It was the summer of 1989, after my sophomore year of high school. Several of my friends were leaving for camp, savoring the last year or two of childhood afforded young teenagers whose parents had means. My friend Dalia and I both needed summer work. We had earned our drivers licenses that spring, and gas, movie money, and cheerleading expenses wouldn't come easy. There was really no question about how or where to find a job. Unlike today, seasonal jobs for high school kids were in abundance in the 80's, and in sunny Hollywood, Florida there was only one place you could get a job that allowed for as much time to socialize as it did work. The local water park, Six Flags Atlantis, was the hangout for teenagers working and playing through the stifling hot summer months. Free admission with a guest on your days off, peers who ran the rides, and a semi-star-studded summer concert series at night, meant it was the ideal summer gig. We signed up to be lifeguards, the top dog position in the park (as opposed, to food service or customer service). They trained us, gave us suits and lifeguard tank tops, and we were official. I could probably write a short novel about the escapades of the days at Atlantis, but this is not the time, nor my purpose here.

One of several slides I operated as an Atlantis lifeguard.

June and July were filled with teenage fun and drama. We became friends with lots of local kids from neighboring towns and high schools. There was one girl in particular, Michelle, who we started to hang out with regularly. She and one of the guys we worked with, Rob, seemed to be developing a love connection. I found myself doing a lot of go-between. Picture cheesy high school stuff like, "She thinks you're cute," and "Why don't you ask her out?" One thing led to another and they started dating.

Meanwhile, Dalia and I met up with two guys who were visiting from Chicago and staying at their parents' vacation home for a couple of weeks. They had been frequenting the park quite a bit, and we hung out and talked on our breaks. We hung out a couple of nights after work, and then they left town never to be heard from again. I thought I really liked the guy (young and foolish) so I was feeling bummed that my summer crush was gone. Michelle and Rob on the other hand, were in full summer fling mode. It wasn't long before they were trying to find a friend for me. After all, I had been their Chuck Woolery. 

One day in late July, or maybe the first couple of days in August, I traded a shift with someone so Michelle, Rob, and I had the same day off. At their urging, we made plans to go to the park for fun. Remember free admission was one of the perks of working there. Rob would be meeting us there with a friend who they really wanted to introduce me to, and in a weak moment I agreed. I remember it as clear as day...

The two of them, Rob and his friend, were sitting at a table under one of the snack huts, chowing down unapologetically on chili cheese fries, an Atlantis favorite. I was so distracted by how gross I thought it was (still do- don't like chili), I didn't have time to feel self-conscious about the fact I was being introduced to a guy while wearing a bathing suit. To be honest, I wasn't blown away. I don't remember initial thoughts about his looks, again the chili cheese fries were in the way. He was a pretty typical looking kid of the time, sporting a summer tan and an 80's mullet. He was tall and skinny, and nice enough I guess, because I agreed to go with them all to the movies that night. We hung out for awhile, went down some of the slides, and I went home to change. My second thoughts about the double date were swayed away by my mom, who in true mom fashion said, "Go, it's a free movie."

Rob, Michelle, and Paul, picked me up that night and somehow I agreed (or maybe I didn't) to see whichever installment of the Friday the 13th series was out that summer. I remember being on one end and Michelle on the other, with the guys sitting in the middle. I was so annoyed that we couldn't talk to each other and I knew the guys planned it that way. The movie was unmemorable, except for a scene that showed boobs and made me feel extremely uncomfortable next to a guy I barely knew. The details of the rest of the night could go on and on, but this much history is enough to set the stage. In short, at the end of the evening, Paul and I sat in Michelle's driveway talking while Rob and Michelle were making out. We got impatient and had curfew, so I drove Paul home and we sat in his driveway, and talked well into the night. He kissed me. I went home. Paul worked for his dad who owned a sprinkler business, but visited me at Atlantis whenever he could. We started dating, and for the most part never stopped. In 1996, we got married. 

Why the trip down memory lane?

Soon after that summer ended, so did Michelle and Rob's fling. Paul and Rob, friends since they were kids, started going separate ways. Rob was a year ahead in school, so he was off to college in Melbourne. There were visits during breaks, and Rob accompanied one of my friends without a boyfriend to homecoming. But within about a year, Paul went off to school in North Carolina, Rob started dating a girl from his old high school, and the friendship started to fade. There was no blowout, no fight, just an organic fork in the road to which they each went in different directions.

Rob married Paula, his high school friend turned girlfriend in 1994 or 1995. We didn't attend; don't recall receiving an invitation. But we knew they were somewhere in Melbourne. So in 1995, when we got engaged, we tried to track them down and invite them to our wedding. No one really remembers, but I think I recall finding an address we were unsure of and sending an invitation. We got married in 1996, and they did not attend our wedding either. So with no particularly hard feelings, like many childhood relationships, this one faded into the memory book.

In August of this year, Paul saw on Facebook that a good friend from high school was killed in a motorcycle accident. Paul was really struck by the news of his friend Auburn's death. They hadn't seen each other in quite some time, but they shared a bachelor pad in the mid 90's, and he and Paul connected on Facebook a couple of years ago and maintained casual contact, as many do on FB. He always remembered Auburn a caring and kind-hearted person, and news of his death was heartbreaking, sort of surreal. Rob had introduced Paul to Auburn back in high school, and Paul knew that Auburn and Rob had been close buddies, best men in each other's weddings. He got to wondering if Rob knew about the accident, but wasn't sure how to contact him. After several attempts over the years to find him on Facebook, he had been unsuccessful. But Rob's sister had connected with Paul on FB awhile back, and he sent her a message. She confirmed they knew about Auburn, and sent Paul Rob's number, urging him to call.

Paul reached out to Rob, and the two talked for awhile, some quick catch up, and even quicker plans. Within a couple of hours, after not having seen each other for over 20 years, they decided to road trip up to Pennsylvania, where Auburn and his wife had been living, so they could attend the funeral together. Two long-lost friends, one van, and 24 hours each way to catch up on 20+ years. The guys picked up right where they left off at 18-years-old. Oh to be a fly on the wall in that van...

They shared grief over the loss of their friend, and their remorse over the loss of contact with one another. They shared the memories of an entire childhood. Both still married to their high school girlfriends, both loving husbands and devoted fathers, they discovered that while so much had changed, so much had not. Rob was a soccer player, and now his kids play soccer and he coaches. Paul was a swimmer, and now his son was a swimmer. They were both Boy Scouts, and now leaders in their sons' troops. They stilled enjoyed talking about a shared love of music and their high school shenanigans. They discovered they still had as much in common as they always did, maybe even more now. It was as if the friendship picked up right where it left off, but with more maturity and appreciation for it. Both men really enjoyed the road trip, felt good about being there together, to remember and to celebrate the life of their friend. It's as though the rekindling of their friendship was honoring the memory and the spirit of the friend they had just lost.

Paul and Rob agreed to keep in touch, and now, a month later, the two will unite their families and introduce their kids, who are near the ages they were when they shared a childhood friendship. Life has a strange way of bringing people together. Now Auburn's legacy of kindness and friendship lives on in the two friends who were brought together to remember him.

The boy in the black shirt and a mustache, right in the middle is Auburn,
the one to the left with the hat is Paul, and the one leaning in over to the left of Paul is Rob.

A more recent photo of Auburn and his wife Janet in Pennsylvania.