When I was a little girl, I wanted to have four kids. Two boys, two girls and a house with a swimming pool. When I was old enough to understand what happens to a vagina when one gives birth, I completely abandoned the notion of having children altogether.
No, thanks. I’ll pass.
But then I fell in love. Got pregnant. Got married (exactly in that order). I fell head over heels in love with my baby. He was my everything. Overflowing with postpartum hormones and oxytocin, I knew I wanted more kids.
It wasn’t until I had four little boys under the age of five that I wanted to slam on the breaks. I was one tired mama. I needed to press pause on all that procreating and focus on raising my kids and bouncing back from four back-to-back pregnancies. But, I didn’t. Miscarriages happen. Family planning fails. In the midst of all this, my last two children were born.
Interestingly enough, my husband and I never really discussed how many children we wanted in the first place. We just lived and loved. Babies happened. We didn’t even give ourselves the chance to plan. We didn’t think about the size of our home. Money in the bank. How they would feel having so many siblings. Some of my kids love having so many brothers and sisters. It’s always a party. Then there are those who would fare far better as an only child. They want their own room. They want quiet. They want to smash their little brother’s face for stealing their socks. I understand this. But really, it’s too late to think about all that now.