Two of my friends had babies this weekend. N over at Griffyslave gave birth to the lovely Josie on Sun. and my running friend J had a baby girl on Saturday.
I am so happy for both of them and can't wait to meet their little ones.
But I also feel a bit wistful. It is entirely likely that Alan--my little sweet boy--is my last baby. It is the last time I will go through the ups and downs of pregnancy, the last time I will feel kicks from within and the last time I will have the excitemtent and anticipation of waiting for a new life.
I love, no I adore, our family of four. At times, like this weekend making our gingerbread house with Alan on my lap and Sam in her chair, I feel so blessed and overwhelmingly happy with our balanced family. I get these glimpses lately of why having our kids close together was pure genius (they like the same things, they will be companions to us and each other much faster, we will be able to be a four-person unit much faster).
I know keeping our family this size is likely the right choice. We all fit in the Volvo comfortably, we make sense this way. I want a third child, but I also know myself and my limitations and I do believe I could not handle a third.
All this is true, but I may never get over the longing. Only four months after the birth of my second, I already feel like his infancy is fleeting. I had to go to the midwife the other day for a check up and I burst into tears in her office. Gone is all the excitement, anticipation and, of course, stress of the final month of pregnancy. In its place is a new knowledge and a body that is getting closer to normal everyday. It is everything I said I wanted in July, so why is it making me so sad now?
I think even if we had four children, I would still be sad when our final one was out and we closed the door on that part of our lives. I am thrilled with our family the way it is, but will always feel a little wistful and slightly envious when I see women starting all this for the first time.