This is Terran, my last baby…
He’s 7 years old today…
Problem is though, I love babies. I love how they smell. How they cuddle into you when you hold them. How cute they look in outfits no adult would ever dream of putting on a human being capable of fighting back.
My labours and deliveries were so quick, my children quite literally came flying out of me. Don’t hate me.
Pregnancy was relatively easy for me, if you don’t count the fact that I didn’t sleep for its duration.
So I quite feasibly could have had 19 children. I could have been like Michelle Duggar, only I wear tight-fitting pants and don’t defer to my husband before I have a thought… ok, yeah, I realize there are far more differences, no need to list them all.
But I like having time to myself. I like being busy. I like having several balls in the air at one time, different balls, balls that don’t shit 12 times a day, stay awake crying all night, and shrinks my breasts to the size of sunflower seeds.
So that means I’m done. Finito.
However, this also means that Terran is and has been the recipient of an excess of attention that could quite easily have been distributed among several more babies. Especially when keeping in mind that my daughter, who is 4 years older than Terran, has been using him as her own living doll. This also means that the boy is well versed in makeup application, nail polish colours, and fashion accessories- we don’t let him leave the house in my heels.
My older boys do tell me I should have another baby, hopefully a boy, but only because they feel Terran has been “girlified” (their word) and so the next baby will be able to “man-up” instead of enjoying being treated like an infant.