Yesterday was one of those rare days when I seriously entertained the idea of having a second child. Jack squealed with excitement when I picked him up from daycare and chatted with me the whole way home. He talked about a mad giant who was “making so much noise!” and a beanstalk that “will hurt you because it’s pokey.” He sat in my lap and cuddled with me on the couch. We played rockets together, which involves taking various things that are vaguely shaped like rockets and pretending they are blasting off. (We both must do this and the rocket sounds must correlate to the size of the rocket – “no, mama, you have a little rocket!”)
Somewhere in the middle of hanging out with Jack I realized how much of a boy he is and how much I will miss these things when he grows up. It all suddenly seems to be going by so quickly, just when I am really enjoying it.
In the past I questioned whether I should have more children (how many can I handle, do I want to give up the little bit of free time I have now, will having another child take away from Jack somehow, and do I really want to go through all the hard parts again) but yesterday I began to wonder if this is the last time I will experience all of this. Until yesterday, I never thought of the question of a second child in terms of “what am I missing out on if I don’t have another child?” The answer to that is much less complicated than the answer to the “should” question, but it also brings with it a whole slough of other questions – namely, am I okay with this being the last time? And I am pretty sure that the answer to that is no.