The Third Child

I’m afraid to say yes to a third child as my other little ones reach the ages of 3 and 5 at alarming speed. With birthdays looming at the start of spring I stare hollowly at my ovulation calendar. Again and again red dates followed by purple circles stare up at me from a flat screen. No matter how fast I scroll I cant scroll away fast enough at the last black dot. The marker of what should have been the fourth child. Every month I scoff at the ovulation reminder and angrily log my period dates and symptoms while my significant other stares longingly at the dates with purple circles. I wish he could understand this pain inside my soul, and how it webs and flows similarly to the ocean and how it takes pieces of my sanity with every high tide. At low tide I can joke airily with my sister about her future nieces and nephews; I can laugh with my father as he jokes about another prodigy. At low tide I can piece together dream nurseries online and congratulate my friends and family as they post birth announcements on social media. At low tide I am okay enough to imagine life with another physical child. And all too soon the waves start to push ashore again; faster and faster. The crashing upon the shores of my heart cry out to my being of all my black dots could have been.

The entrance fee to the darkest recesses of my mind requires a checked bag of guilt laden with anxiety. You must enter through the gate and pay a fee in the currency of tears and broken dreams. To find my sulking husk at the back you must travel through not one but two nursery dreams. As you walk past that blue bassinet with the anchor sheets you’ll need to pay again in the form of confusion; confusion because it wasn’t time, the purple circle wasn’t on that date. Your ovulation calendar was wrong. Shuffle quickly past the bathroom beyond that nursery; you don’t want to see what is in there. You certainly don’t want to feel the sensation of that grief. Shoulder your heavy bag of guilt and pace quickly to the hallway beyond.

Another entrance fee is required here, you’re getting closer now. This currency is raw, you must share your greatest fear; the one you have never given voice to. Upon the choking of your hushed secrets the door will open just beyond your line of sight. Even faster now, shoulder your bag and run because this is the hard part. This one was wanted; the ovulation calendar was right. The days were planned out in surprise and executed beautifully. Except fear hijacked this moment and a white pill was ill-timed. The nursery greets you like a cold tomb, the shades of grey are dark, and the pink is muted. Don’t look too closely or you’ll see the hand painted sunflowers lining the top of the walls. Don’t listen too hard or you’ll hear the echoes of my endless nights of raging cries.

Look for the exit, you’ve gone too far now; its high tide and your feet are swallowed by wet sand and the waves are coming. You’d be wise to drop the bag you brought with you; depression doesn’t care what is in your arms; it will consume you whole. And you will be trapped in here just like me. The water is rising now, I surely hope you know how to swim, the hallway you ventured down is long and full of memories the waves love to devour.