I don’t think I’m going to have any more children. I’m tired of having to get my body in shape after a pregnancy. I’m happy with the two I have. I don’t feel maternal instincts kick up when I hold someone else’s baby. I don’t feel like starting at square one with another human being (mostly because of the whole diaper, potty training thing).
However (maybe I should rename this blog “However…”), I’m sad that I’m experiencing some things for the last time with Cate. She’s learning to talk and since that is one of my favorite things about parenting, I’m cherishing every syllable of baby talk as she learns her sisters name, asks me questions that I can’t comprehend but answer anyway, or babbles out a story she is “reading” from a book. I take every opportunity to have them lay on my shoulder and just sit somewhere. I let them get on my lap as often as possible and I love the baby fat that is fast being lost to little girlness. Those things I’m going to miss because this is the last of it. I don’t think I would survive another one right now… or maybe ever.
I’m looking forward to taking them out and doing more and more fun things together. I’m looking forward to teaching them how to do crafts and how to cook and how to draw.
But this is the last of baby… and I can’t decide if I’m sad or happy. Maybe a little of both.