Almost a Reason for Number Three

I spent a glorious five days in Los Angeles visiting my sister and brother-in-law's newborn baby girl (oh yeah, I visited them too).

Sophia was 16 days old when I arrived. There was so much I had forgotten about the tiniest of babies: the squeaks and gurgles, the unbelievably soft hair and skin, the unfocused gaze, the diapers no bigger than my palm, and the beautiful smell of new life. I wanted to drink her in.

I became quite nostalgic about the newborn stage, when time is measured, not in days or weeks, but hours. A pinprick of regret lodged in my heart (or maybe my uterus) as I realized the babies I will hold in the future will belong to someone else. I'll never again have a tiny being gaze into my eyes with the complete, unconditional, sweet love reserved only for mothers.

There are so many reasons not to have a third: the terrible 9-month morning sickness I seem prone to; the increased chance of birth defects due to my so-called advanced maternal age; the sleep deprivation and stress; the finances involved (more Rob's concern than mine, but a valid one); and the fact that the boys are getting old enough to consider trips to Disney World and other fun things that would be difficult with a baby.

My rational side knows the list of cons outnumber the pros.

But, perhaps, the beauty of another child trumps all else.