I love babies and kids. I’d take 4 (or 5 or 10) of them. But I can’t handle being pregnant. And so I’m making it official: This is my last pregnancy.
That means a year from now when I start feeling all nostalgic about baby booties and baby coos, you’ll remind me.
And two years from now when my baby is walking and talking and I start whining about how my kids are all grown up and my babies aren’t babies anymore, you’ll remind me.
And five years from now when my baby starts kindergarten and I leave the room sobbing because my baby is officially a big boy, you’ll remind me.
No more babies. No more pregnancies.
Question for you: How many kids do you have? How many do you want? If you’re done, how did you know you were done?