We got a call this morning; one of the more unexpected calls we’ve ever gotten. John’s sister was on the line and, being 7:30 am, my brain’s “BIG FAMILY NEWS” detector went off.
She’s pregnant. With her third baby. Her other two children are 9 and 7. After she told me during the Superbowl that she was SO DONE having kids, with no regret.
After I had Cole, I closed myself to the idea of ever having more kids. I was more than fine with one. One was great! And then he was 2 1/2, and one kid wasn’t so fine with me anymore. Cole was still wonderful, of course, and if he was the only child I ever had, the world would certainly not end. But maybe, I thought, we could have one more little bundle of perfection, and that, in turn, would make everything else about our little family more perfect.
And then came Rowan, and she did. Life is that much better with her in it.
And so I questioned my new limit of two babies. If two are wonderful, what would three be? Am I really, really, for sure and ever after DONE?
So when we got the call this morning and I noted my reaction to the news, I had a moment of clarity. Yes. I am DONE. So done. And while I never say never anymore (I’m tired of the taste of foot in my mouth), I will say that there is the very slimmest of chances, which pretty much amounts to no chance at all, that John and I will ever have more children.
I am happy for them if they are happy, and they genuinely seem to be. But it’s not for me. I am content to be an observer of their excitement; to be a hand-me-down-er instead of just a receiver; to be an auntie again to another beautiful, amazing child (I already have three nieces and nephews that I get to see regularly).
And this way, I get to cuddle a new baby and then do that wonderful thing- give it back to its mother.