“Not that directly,” I say, thinking it is another difference in our worlds. Ellen and Andy communicate exhaustively, and even do ongoing couples therapy—not because they have any big problems (although they had gone through a rough period before having Isla), but to prevent problems. Their marriage isn’t perfect, but it is strong, as enviable as her sister relationship, maybe more so.
“You’re really sure you don’t want a second? Teddy’s been such a breeze,” Ellen says, referring to her two-year-old son, whom Stella has just taken inside for his nap.
“I’m sure,” I say, eyeing Nolan through the glass door. “Besides, what if I had another girl?”
Ellen knows what I’m getting at. “Most sisters get along.”
I shake my head and say, “No. Most do not. At least not like you and yours.”
“You could have a boy,” she says, wrapping her dark hair in a bun on top of her head. “Boys love their mothers. And what if you and Josie both had boys? They’d be like cousins and brothers. And the brother relationship seems completely uncomplicated.”
“But I really don’t want another baby,” I say, careful to keep my voice down. “And besides. Nothing is uncomplicated when it comes to Josie and me.”
—
“SHE’S OUT COLD,” Nolan says to me that night in the family room while I’m straightening up the inevitable end-of-the-day disaster area. He’s just returned from carrying Harper up to her bed after she fell asleep on her beanbag watching Frozen.
“All that playing in the sun wore her out,” I say, tossing her toys into their proper wire baskets. Legos in one, stuffed animals in another, books in the third, dolls and their accessories in the fourth, miscellaneous bits in the fifth.
“All that drinking beer in the sun wore me out,” Nolan says, yawning as he picks up a pink elephant puppet and jams his hand inside, both of them staring at me. Ever since he took a workshop with Harper at the Center for Puppetry Arts, he’s turned into a regular Jim Henson.
“You missed your calling,” I say with a halfhearted laugh.
Nolan’s face remains blank, his lips motionless, as he somehow manages to make a felt puppet look alert. “It’s never too late,” the elephant tells me.
“You’re a very wise elephant,” I say, thinking of all the ways his statement could apply to my life. I sink into the sofa, putting my bare feet up on the coffee table.
Nolan looks at me for a beat, then pulls the puppet off his arm and tosses it into the book basket. I resist the urge to correct him, but he catches me frowning and says, “I know, I know. Wrong basket. I’ll get it in a sec.”
“It’s fine,” I say, thinking that the Zoloft might actually be working. Six months ago I would have been unable to resist the urge to move the puppet—and I would probably be sitting over there cross-legged, meticulously organizing the miscellaneous items by size and color. Maybe even ordering more bins from the Container Store.
Nolan sits beside me, his hands on his lap. Remembering his recent offhanded comment that I “never initiate physical contact,” I reach for his hand, lacing my fingers with his. His knuckles are a bit gnarled and his middle finger is crooked from various sports injuries, but I’ve always liked his hands. They are large and strong, and remind me how competent he can be. Handy in a manly way. I put it on a mental list that I’m constantly keeping—Things I love about my husband.
“So?” he says, shifting to look at me. “Did you mean what you said today?”
I give him a quizzical look even though I know exactly what he’s asking me. “About not wanting another baby?” he says. “I heard you talking to Ellen.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. I feel myself tense, but keep my voice light, a tried-and-true strategy to avoid a serious conversation about family planning or our marriage or sex life—questions that often come after Nolan’s had a few beers. I’m not sure whether they make him more philosophical or simply more talkative, but heart-to-hearts are almost inevitable on the heels of his drinking.
“You sounded very…definitive,” he says, frowning before offering me an out. “Was it just the mood you were in?”
“Yeah. Just the mood I was in,” I echo with a little shrug.
“Well, can we talk about it? Another baby?” he asks, his voice tentative.
“Sure,” I say, glancing over at him. “You start.”
“Okay,” Nolan says. He takes a deep breath, stretching his neck to the left, then the right, making a crackling sound.
I wince. “Don’t do that. It can’t be good for you,” I say, although my main reason is simply that the sound grosses me out.
Nolan sighs loudly, then says, “So. I’ve been thinking…about where we are….I mean, we have Harper, and she’s awesome….And if that’s all we could have, I would accept it….But I just don’t feel like our family is complete. I want another baby. I’d actually love two or three more—”
“Three more?” I say, cutting him off. “You’d be happy with four kids?”