I love babies. Always have, always will. So sometimes my uterus twitches a bit when I hold the little bundles of joy.
But then I come to my senses.
Hubs and I are so all set with our two girls. Our family is complete. And I’m pretty sure if we we had another kid, the very delicate, slight bit of balance we’ve finally achieved would crumble to sad, pathetic little bits.
There are so many reasons why two kids is just right for me and I really don’t need a baby in my life…
No more diapers. There is just nothing pleasant about wiping excrement off a person’s butt, no matter how cute that little butt is. And I do not miss diaper blowouts in carseats or on my lap. Or projectile poop. Not one bit.
Man-on-man defense. Right now, if both kids are tantruming, Hubs can deal with one and I can deal with the other. What would we do if there was also a screaming baby? The idea makes me want to crawl into the fetus position and start sucking my thumb. I can handle the truth: I’m just not mom enough.
No minvan needed. I know, I know, many of you love your minvans. But for me, getting a minivan is a symbol that I’ve succumbed to mom servitude. It’s a sign that I’ve conformed to suburban standards. It screams, “I AM NO LONGER COOL.”
Sure, all this may actually describe me and my life, but I’m not ready to admit it. And with only two kids? No need to.
We are finally sleeping again. Gracie didn’t start sleeping through the night until she was 3.5 years old. I really am not sure how I made it through those years. Or how she did, either. I can’t do that again. End of story.
Playing with my kids can be fun now. When my kids were toddlers, “playing” with them meant doing something over and over and over for their enjoyment. Build a tower. Let kid knock it over. Repeat 324 times. Yawn.
Now we do interesting things! We go to fun places! And I don’t want to gouge my eyeballs out from sheer boredom!
I get dumber with each kid. My slowly-declining IQ can’t handle me having another kid. I swear each child has melted my brain cells. Hubs too. We have conversations that make so little sense, we don’t even understand them while we’re having them.
Here’s how it goes: We begin to have a reasonable discussion for a couple of minutes. Soon we start to trail off mid-sentence without finishing our thought. Then we forget what it was we were talking about, give up, and jump to another topic. Nothing gets fully discussed or resolved. Which is why nothing ever gets done around here. Ever.
More than enough hormones in this house already. I swear my seven-year-old is already PMSing along with me. And the four-year-old copies her. If we had another kid, it would most certainly be another girl, and I don’t think Hubs could handle that.
As it is, he has gotten a terrifying glance into his hormone-filled future and has decided to start a six-year-long business trip when Annie turns 12. Thanks, Hubs.
Are you in the two-kid club? Or are you a brave soul who’s outnumbered by your offspring?