It’s amusing to me that not too soon after you get married, everyone starts asking when you’re going to have a baby. And when you finally have one, the inevitable next question is, “When you going to have another?”

I cannot count how many times I’ve been asked that. It’s an almost a knee-jerk comment made on a regular basis by relatives and friends (especially those who’ve taken the plunge and have the requisite 2.5 children or more). The reality is, I really think I’m finished having children.

And while it feels like a solid decision, there are times I’ll happen upon a baby being all sweet and pure and ready to be held. And devious little things that they are, they know just how to get to reluctant mothers, with all their smiling and cooing. Next thing I know, I’m secretly wondering if I’ve made the right decision. Am I really, truly finished having babies?

Realistically, I believe I’m now too old and busy for a baby. And back “then,” I wasn’t the blissful, happy pregnant woman I wanted to be. My pregnancy wasn’t an easy road. But sometimes I find that just seeing a baby messes with my head and blurs those aspects of the whole ordeal. I suspect that’s true for many people who think they’re done having children.

The fact is, my 9-year-old son keeps me busy enough.

That said, I have to admit I miss those years when he was little. Snuggling and being silly. Getting no sleep. When he used to pretend he was going to hug me, but actually only wanted to use my shirt as a tissue. Changing diapers. Ear infections. Chasing him everywhere, everywhere we went.

He was so smiley, chunky and happy. It’s been amazing teaching and watching him grow up and learn about the world.

I couldn’t wait for him to talk, then couldn’t wait for him to form sentences. The milestones of eating solid foods and potty training were wonderful. It goes on and on.

I wanted everything to happen so fast back then. Now I want it to slow down. My son is growing and though in tiny bits, I lose a little of him every day to the passage of time. In only a few years, he will be a pre-teen, then a teenager. He won’t be my always huggable best buddy. He won’t be my baby anymore.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been so baby crazy lately – even peripherally considering the idea of having another one.

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