My husband and I always thought we’d have three kids. We liked the idea of three. Three seemed good to us. Two, plus another.
I still like the idea of three, but I’m not sure anymore if I’ll like the reality of three. See how I feel in another couple of years, see how we’re going. Today I’m leaning towards stopping at two.
I am enjoying not being pregnant. It’s wonderful to think of not doing that again.
It’s nice to think of no more birth and recovery. It went well second time round, might not go well third time round.
I miss my one on one time with the little dude. A third child would make it harder to spend one on one time with each of them.
Harder to do postgrad study. Harder to travel overseas. Would mean we’d need to renovate or move house sooner. Would introduce four new relationships into the family dynamic. Would make juggling two careers more challenging. Would mean additional expenses.
New bub is a cruisy baby. I think he and the little dude will be good mates when they’re bigger. I’m remembering from my own childhood the advantage of growing up with just one sibling: there’s only one sibling relationship to manage.
And you don’t know what baby you’re gonna get. I currently feel like I don’t have enough time to always give both the attention they need, potentially more so with another child, who may have more complex needs than either of the ones I have already. If it was a geeky bookish daughter who loved to have long talks with me, like me and my mum, I’d be especially tempted to have a third. The baby might be not like that at all. What would I do with a girl who doesn’t like books?! And the little dude is my bookish chatterbox anyway, I already have one from that mould. What if it’s a boy who feels left out of his brothers’ games ’cause he’s the youngest?
In the opposing column – are these two really my only children? Will each of bub’s first be the last first? Have I really had the final first new baby smile already?