I just spent the better part of the afternoon emptying out our corner of the garage/house storage space in preparation for some upcoming foundation work (Everybody! Sing with me!*: Bikes with flat tires/Never ridden again/Just where's the o-o-old tu-u-ube?/I've been meaning to mend?). I'd already made an appointment at a local children's secondhand-stuff store to beg a few bucks for the bassinet and the hypno-baby-swing and the potty that we hate, and I was halfway through picking the spider webs off the Stationary Activity Center before I realized, Gee, this must mean I'm not having any more kids.
I feel really, really . . . sober about that realization right now. Like, it's kind of sad. Kind of. I'd be willing to watch my butt swell back into its Jennifer Lopez-rivaling capacity, and I'd make it through name-picking and midwivving and milk-duct-unplugging and not-sleeping, and all that other jive. But I have this ineffable sense that it's sort of maybe just time to move on. I like giving Jackson my full attention. Like when I'm trying to read maccers and hold up my end of a Power Rangers plot discussion at the same time.
I guess so. I mean, I think it's true. I'm pretty sure we're done.
*To the tune of "Knights in White Satin"