I have five friends who are pregnant right now, and I couldn’t be happier for them.
Still, I do wish I was on the bandwagon.
I’d love another child. My son is completely terrific, and I’d love for him to have a sibling to be terrific with. At age 42 and 327 days, though, and with my husband having some medical issues, it’s just not a good idea for us.
I adored being pregnant. I’ve only been pregnant once, only ever taken one pregnancy test. I had a pretty smooth pregnancy until my son decided to sit on my sciatic nerve in my seventh month. But no matter how much discomfort, how badly I got sick (again, my deepest apologies to whoever had to clean up the bathroom at the Pizzaria Uno near Symphony Hall in Boston, and whoever sat next to me during the Boston Pops Christmas Concert in 2003), I was blissfully happy because I was growing a person.
His birth was the most wonderful, scary, craptastically perfect event of my life. Nothing went as planned, but that’s all good because in the end I got to bring him home.
And he is the light, the joy, everything that is good about our lives.
And he loves babies. He looooooooooooves babies. He hasn’t gotten to the point that he’s asking for a brother or sister yet, and those will be hard conversations to have.
He’s got lots of cousins, though, and many friends. We have a large family, and there are worse things in life than not having to share your toys, your parents’ attention and the remote control.
And, like me, he can hug and kiss and hold and play with the babies when he sees them, and then go home with me and Husband to our perfect little family.