I’m a mother of three. Three amazing kids. Three delightful, sometimes overwhelming, occasionally exhausting, yet beautiful and brilliant little humans. This was the picture I had in mind as a child, envisioning my future. I saw myself in my 30s, looking fabulous and effortlessly balancing a career with being a stellar mom, with my three adorable kids at my side, perhaps on a sunlit beach, marveling at life’s wonders.
Alright, so I’ve got the kids. The rest? Not quite as perfect, but I’ve got my trio.
Convincing my husband that a third child was essential wasn’t easy. After two daughters, I played the “Wouldn’t you like a son?” card. He adored our girls and was content, but my persistence wore him down, and before long, he was on board, with no regrets about our now toddler son (who, by the way, is the easiest one yet). At the time, I would have been thrilled regardless of whether I had a boy or girl; I simply had to bring that third child into our lives.
And just like that, our family felt complete. My maternal dreams fulfilled — simple, right? But life is rarely simple, especially when biological clocks and hormones come into play. At the end of the day, we’re just animals, aren’t we?
After my son was born, things took a turn. My pregnancy was a bit complicated toward the end due to high blood pressure and elevated liver enzymes, followed by a relatively smooth induction. It wasn’t a perfect birth, but I was elated. I was head over heels in love with my son and relieved it was all over.
On the drive home from the hospital, my husband innocently asked, “So, how was your last pregnancy?”
That’s when it all began. I fell silent, the tears welling up in my sleep-deprived eyes as I fought to hold them back. Last pregnancy? How could he be so thoughtless? To be fair, it was a genuine question. He was done having kids and happy with his family, while I had just endured a challenging experience that he couldn’t fully grasp, despite my countless complaints over the previous nine months. Perhaps my dramatic “I’m never doing this again!” during my more difficult moments didn’t help.
Logically, I should have felt satisfied. But feelings aren’t always about logic. Postpartum hormones don’t listen to reason, and neither do the biological urges that kick in once you hit your mid-30s. It’s like a loud alarm going off, screaming, “Get pregnant now! There’s still time for one more, but hurry!” Those hormones don’t care that I’m supposed to be done. They don’t care at all.
Once I turned 35, my ovaries developed a mind of their own—a pushy, demanding personality that I’m not fond of. They have baby fever, and if you can relate, raise your hand!
So, back to my uncooperative ovaries. They’re relentless, producing eggs with a regularity I hadn’t experienced before. It’s almost cruel, considering I would have appreciated this promptness back when I was actually trying to conceive.
Picture this: a mid-cycle conversation with my ovaries. It starts subtly around day 12, when I find myself daydreaming in increasingly steamy scenarios. No big deal, right? Just my biological peak. My husband has no complaints about my heightened libido; he’s more than happy to oblige. But then I start to question where this sudden desire is stemming from.
Me: Ovaries, are you trying to trick me again? You want me to get pregnant, don’t you?
Ovaries: Absolutely! We have a stellar egg this month. Don’t miss out!
Me: Appreciate the boost in libido, but I’ll have to decline. He’s not interested in another baby. So even if I might, we’re done.
Ovaries: Oh, come on! Maybe he’ll change his mind. You know you want to give this egg a shot!
Me: It’s not just about me. And even if I do want to fertilize that egg, I’m exhausted and have personal goals to chase.
And here’s where it gets interesting: my ovaries respond with tempting thoughts of an “easier” baby. They promise blissful sleep and a joyful experience.
Ovaries: This one has the sleep gene! You can manage this, trust us!
Me: But I can’t afford another child! And I don’t believe you about the sleep gene!
I’ve been teetering on the edge of sleep-deprived madness for the last eight years—no thanks, I’m not going back there. I have 20 pounds to shed, gym memberships to pursue, and aspirations for belly dancing and yoga classes. I want to focus on becoming the best version of myself for my kids, not remain a frazzled shell of who I could be.
Ovaries: You’re missing out! Just find a way to make it happen. Here are some sultry thoughts to help you along. Go get him!
Me: Nice try, but I’m not swayed. And neither is he. It’s just not meant to be.
So there it is. My mid-30s hormones are making me feel a little crazy. If anyone has tips on silencing their ovaries and taming the biological clock, I’m all ears. For now, I’m heading to the gym.
And while you’re navigating these feelings, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination from Facts About Fertility. Plus, if you’re exploring your own journey, you might find this at-home insemination kit helpful. And for more insights, consider visiting Intracervical Insemination.
In summary, motherhood can be a wild ride, filled with desires and urges that challenge our decisions. As I navigate my own journey, I find humor and solace in the chaos, embracing the joys and challenges of parenting while setting personal goals.