This is the second year in a row the Grape (age five) wants to ask Santa for a little sister.
It's always a little sister.
Even last year, I think he intuited that a younger brother could constitute some kind of direct and unwelcome competition.
Last year I told him Santa doesn't traffic in human children.
He seemed okay with that answer.
This year he's not buying it, and he's so insistent, he's making me cry.
"But why?" he wants to know.
I've explained more than once that Mamma's belly is broken. He accepted that response until last week. More than once, I've heard him explain his status as an only child to his friends in these terms.
But I knew he'd eventually do more math.
"But you had me," the Grape said Friday, on the way home from swimming lessons.
"I did, but I had lots of very big problems. The doctors—many doctors—and Mamma agreed that Mamma's belly shouldn't make any more babies."
The pregnancy and its aftermath were so bad, that I knew, from about month five, that I would never go through that again.
I never pictured myself as an only child kind of mother, but if a second meant another ordeal like the first, I was going to be grateful for my one healthy kid and call my family complete.
For years, I was content with my decision, not least because it was based on the advice of multiple doctors.
The Grape folded his arms over his chest. "Get another opinion. That's what you did with your hand."
He paused to think. "And that's when your hand started getting better. Look. You can even drive now."
I turned and gaped at him, smugly strapped in his car seat, clutching a juice box, brimming with confidence.
He yowled at me to watch the road.
He's not wrong. I've got a new hand doctor, who issued a smaller, tighter fitting brace, along with a shot of cortisone. My hand does feel a whole lot better.
A surgery exists today, a procedure that did not exist five or six years ago, that could fix my major medical issue with pregnancy—the one that triggered everything else that went wrong.
Unsurprisingly, one of the handful of doctors doing the procedure is here in Boston.
I'm not going to go into an analysis of my medical records—I know lots of writers do, in painstaking clinical detail. That's fine, but that level of sharing doesn't feel right for me.
My basic conundrum boils down to this: Even if I have the surgery, I am likely out of "time," which is a euphemism used by endocrinologists to mean "good eggs."
In this I'm no different from tens of thousands of women in their early forties.
I'm a terrible sleeper, but I don't lie awake at night wondering why I waited so long.
I waited so long because my mind was made up. No more hellish, dangerous pregnancies. Period.
What keeps me up is that suddenly the entire game changed.
For me, it probably changed too late.
Either way, the Grape isn't getting what he really wants from Santa.
Not this year.