Carl and I decided, during my pregnancy with Grace and confirmed after her birth, that we were done with having children. A lot of thought went into this process - finances; lifestyle; how well we could raise the children we already have if we had more; the fact that I SUCK at being pregnant; etc.
And we're both content with that. I love, love, love that my littles are getting older. I love that they can both communicate verbally (ok, Grace still needs some work in that department, but she's MOSTLY verbal now). I love that they don't need me every second (every minute, yes, but I occasionally get two seconds to myself to go to the bathroom once in a while these days). I love that I can have conversations with Joy, even if they don't make much sense always. I love watching them play together.
I've never been a "baby" person, although I've always enjoyed holding and cuddling other people's little people. I've always been more than happy to give them back, too! And that didn't change much with my own littles; while I loved cuddling with them, I enjoy them so much more each year older they get.
And yet. When people post pictures that remind me of this moment:
Joy's first day home
And this one:
Our first family photo (not counting the hospital ones where all three of us looked like we just survived a horrific battle - which, considering it was twenty hours of labor, we pretty much did)
Grace, a few hours after birth. Only five hours with her!
Grace's first day home, snuggling in after a good meal
Well, it's easy to forget the very very good reasons to stop with two children, to forget the tortures of pregnancy (nausea all! nine! months!; fatigue; aches and pains; hormones bogging me down in a sea of depression; a fog of not knowing how the days pass; the hemorrhoids and the yeast infection and swollen feet and - did I already mention the puking? Entire first four months, brief respite in the middle where I just felt like crap but never actually threw up, and then back to full-blown morning sickness during the last two months); to forget the shrieking, hitting, furious pain of labor, to forget the sleepless nights and the pain of breastfeeding, and the constant crying, and the intense neediness, and to just go,
"Awww. I want another one!"
Thankfully, my husband's desires are not so affected by a biological clock and maternal instincts, so whenever I mention the possibility to him, he just laughs and shakes his head and says,