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"So now we have one. What would it mean to have another?" I ask one rainy afternoon, idly clicking away on my laptop from under our duvet as Justin, home early from an assignment, folds our daughter's laundry.
"If you wanted another, I'd want another." He shrugs and smiles, meeting my eyes as I dissolve into confused longing.
Just like that? "Is my resistance what's keep us from having one? I didn't know you were feeling the desire for another," I say.
"Well, to be honest, I think about her with a playmate, and I feel pangs. Not pangs of nostalgia for what I had with my sister, per se, but I can imagine her with a brother or sister, and I imagine her loving it, and I can imagine what a sibling might be like with her. We have seen her now at two with kids at the park who are four, and seen that wide-eyed wonderment about everything that four year-old kid is doing-and she doesn't even know that kid. You can imagine how amazing that would be. You can feel the pangs, too, can't you?"
I can. I have.
He continues, running a hand through his still-thick sandy mane. "Discount the infancy. Imagine the point when a new baby is interacting and learning, and see that our two children starting to play with each other; see her taking ownership over that kid. Her sibling. A person she has responsibility for. And imagine how we'd share with her the importance of that responsibility."
I've never heard Justin talk quite like this, other than when he wanted me to stop trying not to get pregnant. He puts down a neat pile of tiny t-shirts and jeans, and comes over to the bed, where I'm silently marinating in his words.
He sits down next to me. "If we were to decide to do it, we'd make it work, and we'd find a way to be happy with it. But can we talk about what that would involve?"
I nod. He goes on. "Chances are we'd have to move out of the city, somewhere bigger and cheaper. I'd have to commute into the city for work. And while we'd have some childcare, like we do know, since I'd be commuting and you'd be at home, you'd end up picking up most of the slack. We wouldn't be able to share responsibility-or our lives-in the same way. And suddenly we'd have fallen into a dynamic that neither one of us really wants. You'd be the mom isolated at home, even though you'd be working. I'd be the dad commuting to work, never quite doing my share, trying to get home in time to say goodnight to the kids. And that's not what I think would make you happy. It has a cascading effect, this choice. I feel the pangs, sure. But I think I can live with them."
Can he? Can I? We'll see.
