OnesieThere was a random Onesie on the stairs in front of my apartment. I noticed it one day as I collected my mail. Why in the world would there be a Onesie sitting there? Who could it possibly belong to? In our fourplex apartments across the street from a college there were only student-roomates and my husband and me. That Onesie perplexed me, and everyday for a month, it was there greeting me as I checked my mail. I thought it was mocking me, as we had been trying to get pregnant for over a year. Once the test came back positive, though, I ran outside and grabbed that Onesie. I realized it had not been teasing cruelly, but warning softly. It was my omen, and I took it, brought it into my house, washed it, and laid it in my new baby's drawer and thought, "That made sense all along."
What's one more, right? What's one more grape to a bunch? One more cup of sand to a sandbox? One more cloud in a rainstorm? What's one more child to our family? The family I exhaust myself caring for, the one whose needs unfold before me like the yellow brick road. What's one more pregnancy? One more nine months sectioned off into trimesters? One more fear of loss in the first trimester, a concerned woman always checking for blood? What's one more large weight gain, loss of normal physical function, restless, sleepless nights? One more agonizing time of having a weak bladder, morning sickness, tender breasts. What's one more labor? What's one more baby blossoming from her body? Extending his or her arm as an olive branch to break the mother's insides. What could be worse than all of this? The fact that after this baby, there will not simply be, one more.