The author’s three children: Max, Olivia, and Charlie. (Photo: Jaime Primak Sullivan)

I had an epiphany after my first date with Michael that he would be my husband. So on our second date, he found himself on the receiving end of our now-infamous “rapid fire” sessions, in which he allows me to ask him as many questions as I can, about anything, in under a minute. “Do you want children?” was one of my first questions, quickly followed by, “How many do you want?” His answer was music to my ears. “Four,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

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Now understand, this was the exact answer I was hoping for: I am one of four, I have always wanted four, and I had names picked out for four. If there was ever a sign that we were meant to be, this was it — that, and the fact that he actually agreed to play “rapid fire” on our second date.

Michael is 13-and-a-half years older than me, and we knew we wanted to start trying for kids as soon as possible. Olivia came the year after we were married, Max 11 months after her, and Charlie 22 months after Max. We were right on track for four — only we weren’t. My pregnancy with Charlie was awful, plagued by a placenta issue and five-week hospital stay due to hemorrhaging, resulting in an emergency C-section at 34 weeks followed by a two-week stay in the NICU — all while leaving daddy home alone to care for our two under 2. It was more than either of us could handle.

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Still, at around 32 weeks into my pregnancy with Charlie, lying on my side to stop yet another bleed, I turned to Michael. “No matter how scary this gets, no matter what I say or how much I push,” I told him, “do not get a vasectomy.” I was not about to let go of my dream — even though I was well aware that the coming weeks wouldn’t be easy, that my body would take a long time to recover, and that the emotions from running back and forth between home and the NICU would wear me down.

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The author holding Charlie for the first time, in the NICU. (Photo: Jaime Primak Sullivan)

And so, eventually, I shuffled through the front door, wincing in pain from my C-section and the tired muscles in my legs that had hadn’t to work for over a month. Emotional, exhausted, and scared, I told Michael this: “I think you should get a vasectomy.” I cried as I worked my way back onto the couch. He tried to argue with me, but I pushed — for four months, without letting up. So he did it. That April, he got a vasectomy. And I was relieved.

Fast forward to an afternoon early that summer. Charlie was crawling around the backyard with Max and Olivia when it hit me — a wave of emotion so strong, and a resolve I couldn’t fully explain but completely understood: I was not done. Someone was missing. Suddenly, I became angry. Hadn’t I warned Michael not to listen? Didn’t I explain that the decision would be suggested only in haste? When he came outside, I burst into tears. He listened as I vented my frustration, throwing my mind into overdrive about how we could “fix” this. But he stopped me. There would be no fix. Our experience with Charlie was a scare too great for our family, he said, and we couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t happen again. He also didn’t feel comfortable starting over at 50.

He was done.

Done? How could he be done? Didn’t he remember our second date? In an instant, the publicist in me went to work. “No one regrets having another,” I told him. “It’s the one you don’t have that you regret.” But he had no regrets, because truly he was done. I could feel the resentment and the helplessness creeping up my spine, and there was nothing I could do. It never occurred to me that in a marriage, one person could just be done having children — and that it would mean they, as a couple, would have to be done with it, too.

His decision changed our marriage. It made me feel like it was he versus me. But Michael stayed quiet about his decision, even when I cried, hoping that my longing for our last baby would fade. Despite all my tears, still, we were done.

The complete Primak-Sullivan family.

Over the last three years I tried everything, to no avail, to change his mind: begging, pleading, therapy, and alternate routes. We’ve had two failed adoptions, both ending with the birth mothers choosing to keep their babies. I was happy for them, but the truth is, their decision nearly broke me emotionally. But looking back, I know those situations not working out were truly for the best, because Michael’s heart wasn’t in it.

I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching and a lot of prayer to find peace enough to get back to nurturing our marriage. I became tired of crying. Tired of fighting a battle I was never going to win, and ready to accept our beautiful family of five. It was time to let go of the “what was” so I could embrace the “what is.”

I began to see the sun shining again only recently, after I made true peace with the fact that our lives don’t always go exactly as planned, and that it’s okay. I had a vision for my family that I was clinging to, and I finally let it go. Today, I am living for the blessings I have and no longer mourning the ones I had been hanging onto. I am — we are — complete.

See, that’s thing about being done: when you know you are, you are.

Jaime’s digital series #cawfeetawk can be seen daily on her Facebook page and YouTube channel.



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