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Comfortable home, a loving husband and four beautiful kids—ideally two boys and two girls—all close in age, spaced out in perfect little every-other-year gaps. I imagined they’d inherit big brown eyes from my side of the family and be remarkably, improbably, well-behaved siblings who somehow never fought or bickered.
Four kids seemed perfect in every way. I wanted a big, lively household full of warmth and love. As the oldest of three kids growing up, I developed a mostly arbitrary opposition to odd-numbered sets of children—we’d always wanted one more brother or sister so our teams could be even. (Totally logical thinking at the time, OK?) Four kids seemed like a lot, but a manageable level of “a lot,” by my then-childless, totally inexperienced standards.
Flash forward to reality: I have two children. I will not be having any more. And you know what? I’m really happy about it. In fact, the idea of having a third child (let alone a fourth or more) puts me into a sheer panic because honestly? I am DONE. My hands are full—wonderfully, happily full—and I am not mentally or physically equipped for any more kids than I already have. My heart is content and my baby factory is closed forevermore, with zero hesitation or regret.
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