I want another baby.
Another little boy to chase after his brothers and wear their old clothes. Or a little girl to try and stuff into dresses when she’d rather chase after her brothers.
Even as I worry that I have too little patience and get stressed too easily I want more. More children to love. More children to call me mama. More children to watch grow. Even if it is just one more. I want more.
I don’t feel done. I don’t feel that my family is complete. I adore the two boys that I have. I love watching them learn new things. I love their delight in the simple. A pile of rocks. A small fountain. A caterpillar. I want to watch it again an again.
Even as I worry that they will resent not having the most playful mother. Or a mother that doesn’t stay home and bake. Or a mother that doesn’t like to be outdoors. I want more.
I want them to be close. I want large family gatherings at the holidays or summer barbecues. I want lots of grand babies. I want a full house.
Even as I worry that I’m not ready for more. That I might never be ready for more. Even as I miss not having space and no longer being just me. I want more.