I have always only wanted two children.
It was my life plan.
My logic even as a teenager ran something like this: Two children are the right amount. Two children can each invite a friend home for tea, and fit in the car with said friends. Two children and us can fit in standard hotel rooms when we go away. Two children can each have one of my hands.
As an adult I could add further to this list and wax lyrically about the fact that two children mean that that we can afford to have the standard of life that we enjoy. That two children mean that we don’t have to move into a bigger house. And that two children mean that I don’t have to drive a bigger car.
I can also rhyme off the increased risks that would come with having another baby at my age. I can tell you that realistically surviving on any less sleep than we currently get would drive us both insane. Oh yes, and I can also tell you that I absolutely hate being pregnant.
But all those things are my head talking.
They are all completely and utterly true. But none of them account for my heart.
And my heart would love nothing more than cuddles from a newborn. It would love nothing more than watching the Lion run around with a sibling of his own age. It would love nothing more than the chance to be a parent of three.
I have no idea why I feel this way. I have always been the sort of person who has thought with my head. And realistically that isn’t going to change.
No matter how strong the pull. No matter how much my heart yearns for just one more. And no matter that we would of course love a third every bit as much as we love the other two.
I know with my head that our family is complete.