I spent yesterday morning with a group of moms and their kids. These women are friends and fellow soldiers on the front lines of parenting and marriage. It was a lovely time, spent laughing and commiserating and chasing down errant toddlers. All of us have one child who is about two years old, although several are now toting around wee little seconds. Our group grows.
We try to get together once a week, but life and nature (80 inches of snow this winter, anyone?) sometimes get in the way. Yesterday we were celebrating the imminent birth of the second child of one of the women. Just a few short weeks until her due date, she is busily preparing for the arrival of a baby girl. And with the announcement just yesterday of yet another pregnancy in our group, that leaves just one other and myself that are still in the one child camp.
I don't mind this. I've talked about my indecision about having another child before. In fact, indecision isn't the right word. Gut-wrenching fear is a little more accurate. I am just not ready. Don't know if I ever will be. If Sophie is an only child, I don't think our family or the world will be any worse for it. We love her with the fire of ten thousand suns. That won't change. I will do everything in my power to give her the best life I can and whether that includes a sibling is yet to be determined.
But. Holding my friends' newborns makes me so nostalgic. Oh my goodness. Their little tiny faces. The sweet milky smell. How they cling to you with their unbelievably long and delicate fingers. And I think maybe...
In a couple of years.