Recently, a dear friend and her gorgeous 9-month-old son came for a visit. Her baby is even-tempered, sweet, warm and snuggly. He's a good sleeper, a good eater and has a gorgeous toothy smile that he bestows on everything from the dog, to Little Dude to our favorite Laurie Berkner CD. We loved having them around.
Still, the minute they left, I turned to my husband and said, "Thank God, we only had one baby."
The adorable ball of sweetness, rather than triggering my instinct to pop out a sibling for Little Dude, reminded me of all the reasons I do NOT want to have another. The constant vigilance, bottles, drool, inexplicable cries, making baby food, nappy bags, nappy buckets, nappies, the lack of time to myself, talking in sing-song voices and wondering if I will ever again take a shower that lasts more than two minutes. I love my son and treasure every stage of his life, but I'm glad his infancy is in the rearview mirror.
I don't think my take on this is unreasonable. Nor does my husband, who likes to sleep in even more than I do. We seem to be in the minority. At one time or another, nearly everyone we know (and plenty of people we don't) has told us we should have another baby.
It was worse when Little Dude was younger. For years, near strangers would stop me to encourage me to get pregnant. Toy shops, the gym, the park — no place was sacred. The supernarket was the worst. Waiting to ring up my weekly haul became an exercise in politely deflecting unwanted advice from the efficient, but intrusive, Nosey Cashier.
Nosey Cashier: "Hey cute boy! Your boy is cute!"
Me: (smiling) "Thanks so much."