"Are we all here?"

Some days I'm still not sure.

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplas

This week I started packing up the baby stuff.

I started by listing the expensive baby things we bought, the ones I’m hoping to recoup some money for, the ones we “couldn’t live without,” the ones that we rarely used with baby number two: the Snuggle Me Organic Infant Lounger, the Baby Bjorn Bouncer, the UPPAbaby Bassinet with Stand, the Lovevery Play Gym, the Jolly Jumper Original Baby Exerciser with Super Stand, and that’s just the beginning.

While I’m posting the items to Facebook Marketplace, the whir of the baby monitor jumping between the boys’ rooms, I feel an emotional whiplash.

On the one hand, I am ready for this. I am energized to clean out the storage space in the basement which has been overrun by stacks of baby things—swings and sleep sacks, teethers and toy gyms, bibs and bouncers, and bins and bins and bins of clothing all organized neatly according to size. (You wouldn’t believe from the heaping piles of baby things we’ve acquired that Jim and I consider ourselves to be minimalists, or at least we did before kids.) I am ready to be done nursing, ready to have more nights of uninterrupted sleep, ready to close out the chapter of Chelsea-is-pregnant-or-nursing-or-both-for-3.5-years-and-counting. I am tired and I am so ready.

On the other hand, I feel the weight of shock and sadness. Am I really done having babies? Will I never get to experience the miracle of a vaginal delivery? Hold my minutes-old baby on my chest again? Watch another child utter their first word, roll over for the first time, cut their first tooth, take their first steps…? Did I take certain moments for granted because I wasn’t sure if Kai was my last? Did I cherish him enough throughout his first year?

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On the way home from the hospital, after Kai was born, Jim looked into the rear-view mirror at our sound-asleep newborn in the backseat and then at me riding shotgun. He popped the question, “Are we all here?” It took a moment, but I knew exactly what he meant. Was our family complete? Or were we still missing someone? I wasn’t so sure. I’d just labored over the course of three days only to surrender to anesthesia and be cut open in the O.R., but I was also giddy with gratitude for the most perfect miracle we’d just brought into the world. Why wouldn’t we want another one?

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When Jim and I were living in New York City we adopted two cats, Whitman and Wendell. After Jim realized that I held semi-serious aspirations to become a bonified cat lady, he kindly instated a rule into the Keat Clan Credo indicating that four-legged creatures could never outnumber the two-legged creatures in the house…but then we had Loren and there was, once again, more humans than cats in the house.

We named our third cat Harris, in honor of the first Black female VP. We adopted her the week of the inauguration. I still remember the day Biden was sworn in because it was the same day Loren sat up unassisted for the very first time, as if he knew something exciting was happening.

Harris was adorable, snuggly, playful. We adored her, BUT…she was definitely a tipping point for us. I felt stressed, like I couldn’t give all the living creatures in the house the love and attention they deserved, let alone adequately care for myself. “Remind me of this scenario,” I told Jim, “when we have two kids and I’m contemplating a third.”

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It’s been 13 months since Kai came into the world, and I’m once again asking myself the question, “Are we all here?” Some days I’m still not sure.

Most days, however, Loren is in the prime of toddlerhood, which I refuse to call the terrible twos, but they are hard, and somedays it’s a downright miracle that I make it through without imposing lasting trauma on my children. Truly. Kai’s increasing mobility adds to the chaos. He’s on the brink of walking and climbing. He’s also mastering the art of vocal protest when big brother pushes him down or takes a toy from him; screaming has replaced what was formerly just tears.

This morning, during my usual morning walk with the boys, Loren was screaming and crying so loudly that a man actually came out of his house to ask if everything was okay. Okay? Does it look like everything is okay? Nobody’s dying, but this is not okay.

That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I stared at him from the middle of the sidewalk where I’d sat holding Loren on my lap, and calmly replied, “Yes, everything’s fine. We just don’t have any tissues and my son freaked out when I wiped his boogers on his shirt.”

Lately, when I consider the question, “Are we all here?” my answer is, “Without a f*cking doubt. We sure as hell better be.”