I have two gorgeous little girls. You know them. I post their pictures every day. We are a happy family. We feel complete. The whole two kids, two grown-ups thing works really well for us. It feels balanced, harmonious. When I sit at the table and watch my family interact it feels just right.
Our youngest daughter is almost three. Soon she will be out of diapers. Soon she’ll be graduating to a real bed and we’ll be able to change the decor of their room from nursery to little girls’ room. Soon we’ll take out the crib and the toddler bed, we’ll remove the glider, we could even get rid of the changing table/dresser. Soon I’ll even contemplate getting rid of all the baby paraphernalia in the garage.
The scary thing about all of these plans buzzing around my head is that they feel right. And that’s scary, because where does it put Max?
You see, in my heart lives a little boy. His name is Max. Maximilian if you must know. He’s got blue eyes and sandy wavy hair like his father and his sisters. He’s the youngest of our family, the third child we don’t yet have.
It sounds crazy, but I’ve always felt like we were meant to be a family with three kids. I’ve always imagined this sweet little boy with curly hair pulling up the rear. There’s never been a moment of doubt that one day we’d have Max. So when I start to contemplate saying “This is it.” it feels strange, like I’m abandoning my baby boy. Like I’m giving up on him.
As the end of Little L’s toddlerhood nears and her entrance into preschool approaches I’ve thought more and more about Max. If we had kept to our 2 and a quarter years distance between kids he would already be here. In fact he’d be almost 8 months old. I always said that I either wanted three kids close together or two followed by two later down the road.
But I don’t see two down the road, I just see Max. Sweet little Max with a smile in his eyes.
I have a gorgeous and amazing family. I am truly blessed to have two delightful girls who more than fill my heart with joy and my eyes with admiration. I have a husband who cares for them better than I could have ever hoped. Things are good. Really, really good.
So good that I can even start to wrap my brain around never being pregnant again, around never breastfeeding another child. So good that I can think of getting rid of the glider where I rocked both of my girls. So good that we can get rid of the highchairs and everything else and really focus on a life with children instead of a life with babies.
And yet, even as I type those words, a little voice inside my head whispers faintly “But what about Max?“