I assume this is the windup to ovulation as I feel I am falling down a hole. I was up with N last night, whose cough has returned with a vengeance. I just ate four cookies in the hope that my mood my shift, but instead, my belly feels sick.
I think my husband uses anger the way I do alcohol or my brother does insecurity and doubt. Which is to say: there’s a comfort in returning to that familiar mental space. We make a habit of certain mental circuits; if we try and run our normal course and skip the drinking/depression/rage, then we return to the beginning of our thoughts unsettled, having missed an essential beat.
Yesterday he decided again that we should not have another child. But he periodically changes his mind and tells me with certainty that we should have a third. We are quite literally playing with someone’s life.
If i could assure him that we would have a girl, I’ve no doubt that would sway him. I do not blame him for dreading three boys; it wasn’t until I saw M’s emerging blood splattered head that I knew, knew with that certainty that people use for God or love, I wanted more. One, two. Boys. Let it be four boys. While I was pregnant with M I was bitterly disappointed by not having a daughter, but when I saw when something clicked within my head. Want, as in I want, is not even the right word. It was more a sacred certainty, not in having more children, but that those more would be good.
I cannot reassure my husband that there is no greater purpose than the one handed us by evolution. It may be true that this is it, this is what we were born to do, pass on genetic material, and everything else is goals and games. But it is also entirely exhausting and awful, and like watching snails with my son after the rain, you cannot tell someone to find something extraordinary. They will, or they will not.