There are times where I feel downright tearful about this. My baby, my BABY! Then, there are other times like last night when I randomly become convinced that I'm pregnant and I can't sleep because my mind is spinning with the logistics of fitting another person into our house and budget.
If Kurt and I give up the big bedroom, we can put two kids in it. Actually our closet is pretty big, maybe we could put their beds in there and decorate it with glowy stars. It could be like a fun little hideaway. Of course we could never admit about this "hideway" to my parents-in-law or really any visiting guests, and am I seriously considering putting my children into the CLOSET? Oh god. Maybe we could just chain them to the walls and put a black and white tv with rabbit ears in there, one that only shows fuzz. This is a TERRIBLE IDEA. The only way we can have another kid is if I build a shack in the back yard and move into it. It might be cozy.
On nights like those, I come downstairs where Kurt is up late watching sports and I tell him, "I can't sleep because if we have another baby they'll become closet dwellers." He talks me down from the ledge by working out the logistics of our last semi-reckless rendezvous (read: full body armor soaked in spermicide wasn't donned at the first hint we were even thinking about sex,) compared to my cycle and it really is wonderful to be married to somebody who loves math and statistics so much.
He's right. I'm not pregnant. Just PMS-ing.
Most of the time, PMS is just annoying... like, I'll start to cry because I can't find one of the straps to my favorite bra after doing laundry. And, even though I'm the one who did the laundry, I'll find a way to blame Kurt. I might even call him at work and tell him how that bra was the only bra that didn't make me go crazy with uncomfortableness and it's his fault that I'm going to adjusting all day.
This time, however, there is a lesson to learn from my pre-menstrual crazies. No matter how sad it makes me to see my littlest baby get big, sometimes... no matter how soft and warm and squishy and WONDERFUL SMELLING my friend's infants are, I DO NOT really want another baby.
So, my baby is turning one? What's so heartbreaking about that? And what's so great about newborns, anyway? Is it the way they're so pure and beautiful that they make you feel like you've just been born yourself? Is it the newness and softness that reaches into your soul and rearranges you so that you're sure you understand the meaning of life? Yeah. God. Newborns are pretty magical and awesome. Well, I've had all of those things in my life, twice.
I'm just going to have to embrace the wonderfulness of 1 and 4 years old, because they're awesomely magical, too. It's just that they're here, and newborn is gone forever. I just need to think about the closet hideaway and remember that no more newborns is a good thing.
At least in our family.
That doesn't mean that I can't smell my friend's babies and hold them and get a little bit of that tingly, zen, this is the meaning of beauty and life feeling, by-proxy.
I love you, my big almost one year old, and my love for you only grows, as you do. You and your sister are enough for me.