And so that’s what I did.
For two years I focused on raising the kids we had, until one day Rich
said, “I think we should have another.”
W-h-hat? Now don’t get me
wrong. I thought it was sweet that Rich
loved our kids so much he wanted another.
It annoys me when guys put the brakes on having more kids because, Hey, you can’t fit a car seat in the back of
a Corvette. Yeah, pal, that car only
has room for you and your ego. But sweet
as it was to hear him say he wanted another, it was also infuriating. I had crossed the threshold! I was now forty-two! There was no way I should try to have
another child. I showed Rich the scary
numbers, rattled off all of Science’s arguments against such an attempt, and
still he was convinced we should have another.
There was only one explanation for this: Rich was delusional. He wasn’t seeing things clearly. I had the doctors on my side, some with open
slots in their schedules to squeeze me in for a tubal ligation. Not that I took a poll, but if I had, no one
would have thought having another baby at my age was a good idea, no one but
Rich.
I dug in my heels and told him to be reasonable. It was too late! He remained convinced it wasn’t. Some may say I was nuts to relent, but a
marriage isn’t a cold-hearted corporation, making decisions that only make
sense on paper. It’s a pact, including not just the two who are married, but their God on whom they
lean as they, hand in hand, navigate their way through this life. With this understanding, I had to stop and
ask myself if it were possible that Rich wasn’t just wanting another baby, but
that he was sensing that another baby wanted us, to be a part of our family.
It seemed to me madness, but I knew that sometimes God’s
ways appear so. As Zechariah would have
said (if he’d been able to speak) it was madness to assume his wife Elizabeth
would have a baby boy named John. And
what sense was there in Sarah thinking she’d ever give birth to a boy named Isaac? And so, though I didn’t agree, I consented to
try, and when one miscarriage was followed by another, I still consented, for
just a little longer, just in case there might be someone trying to make it
here.
Peter made it here.
At forty-four, I gave birth to our fattest, healthiest baby ever. The biggest danger to his life as a newborn
was the constant threat of his siblings smothering him with love. Yes, seven kids is a lot. It’s expensive, it’s loud, it’s hard to fit
in a car or vacation home. But we’ve
made due, made room, and Peter is here, just like his father knew he should
be.
No comments:
Post a Comment