When Kevin and I started talking about marriage, I told him I might not want kids. I don't remember his exact response, but it wasn't anything we discussed for long. I think he knew me better than I knew myself, at least in that area. We had Braden four years into our marriage, and my labor/delivery nightmare ranks about as high as anyone's. It ended with three hours of worthless pushing, a C-section, and a pledge that I would never get myself into this mess again. Yet my next "mess" came just 26 months later, a scheduled C-section that resulted in my beautiful Addison.
You know the rest of the story—I ended up with five babies in all, although one's in heaven. And after each one, I said with great conviction, "I am SO done!" I believe my actual words, on the way to the hospital to get Brooklyn out of me, were, "I will slit my wrists if I ever get pregnant again." Silly me.
A lot of women I know yearn for a baby once theirs begins to grow up. That's never been the case with me. I yearn for the child, the teenager, the adult. Babies are great because they grow into these things (and, truly, I've enjoyed each of my babies a little more than the previous one—probably because I think it's my last), but the actual baby phase is not my favorite. I just love who they turn into. And I love the role Kevin and I get to play in their lives. Parenting is what we do best together. We're a well-oiled parental machine at this point.
Since no woman in her right mind chooses to have five C-sections and every doctor advises against it, I won't be having another baby without divine intervention. Sometimes I pray, slightly halfheartedly, for that intervention. I also pray that little boys—just to balance things out—will fall from the sky. I have no idea what that means, but I figure God can do with it what He'd like. When my kids come running out of their room on a Saturday morning (the oldest three share a room for now), I count their little heads and think, "That's just not enough." I hear the little one jabbering in her crib and think, "Well, that's probably enough." And then I read about the Jolie-Pitts, and I think that sounds like so much fun—especially if you could sluff off your potty-training toddler to an overpaid nanny.
