Before I met my husband, I swore I never wanted to get married, and I wouldn’t touch kids with a ten foot pole. Now look at me. I’ll be celebrating ten years of wedded bliss this fall and have kept alive two small children that were birthed from my loins. And not even, like, Chia pet kids, but real, flesh and blood human beings.
Truth be told, there’s a part of me that wishes I’d taken my obstetrician up on his offer for a tubal ligation when I was on the operating table after my daughter was born. But I couldn’t. It was still so…fresh. I mean, she was just BORN. All I could think was “Let’s see if she makes it home before we close up shop.”
Though, I think if I approached my husband tomorrow and said I wasn’t done having children, he’d be on board for a third.
Three. Three children. 1…2…3. I just don’t think I have it in me.
I was the only girl to two brothers. One is my twin, the other is a mere 14 months younger. I never had any alone time. There was always another sibling.
My husband was the only boy to two sisters. Both considerably younger than him. So he clearly remembers a time when it was just him.
And those stark differences feel like the foundation for why he would be interested in having one more kid, and I’m completely done. Here are my personal reasons why I’m stopping at two …