Three?

I want another baby. But I don’t. I want to have that crazy house, where kids are always laughing and playing, constantly entertained by their siblings. I want a baseball team.

But then I don’t. When I am in a store and one kid is licking the shopping cart handle while the other is throwing a fit in the shoe aisle, I try to imagine what I would do with another one. Literally. What would I do with it? Where would it go? How would I fit three kids in the backseat? What would happen if they all ran separate directions? What if they all had the flu?

And I’d have to start all over again. I’d have to be pregnant for nine months. I would have to stop drinking wine. I would have to deal with nursing boobs and those confusing newborn poops that smell all sweet and seedy but look like mustard diarrhea. I would have to give up what little freedom I have, and revert back to always having a child incessantly dependent.

There is also the issue of overpopulation. There are so many people on the planet already, that is it selfish to keep having kids? My husband loves the idea of having two children, that way we aren’t adding to the population merely replacing. I get that. I LOVE THAT. But I also love babies.

I love them so much that although I am exhausted 24/7, and I currently have peanut butter gluing my hair to my t-shirt, I still want another one.