Babies

When I had Sprout, I got my knittin' knotted so there wouldn't be any more marvelous surprises.  One boy, one girl, one million reasons why it's not a good idea to have more.

Since I have made myself all done with babies, I can't threaten my kids with "I made you, I can make another one just like you!" and the like.  I can also call them both my babies for all time because he is my youngest boy and she is my youngest girl.  Neither one of them really likes the latter but they tolerate it from me for now.

I want more babies.  Now, now, y'all know I am nuttier than a Claxton fruitcake!  I shan't have any, not even foster or adopted, because it is not wise and it is not financially possible, but I can want them all day long without hurting anyone.  And I do.  Want.

I liked being pregnant.  I like holding a soft, warm, sweet infant.  I like rocking them and soothing them and singing to them, washing their wee feet and tickling their tummies.  I like the powerful, transformative magic that is pregnancy.  I'm staring down the barrel of middle age.  Heck, I'm halfway down that barrel!  Tick, tock, too bad, my clock ticks along and mocks me.

I am enjoying watching some friends with their babies, being a witness to their firsts and all the wonders and horrors of raising small humans.  I can hold another mother's baby, love it a bit, give it back, and that's fine.  I hope some day I'll have grand babies I can cuddle and send home full of sugar and peculiar ideas.

Meanwhile, my babies aren't so much babies any more.  Sprout's four.  Four!  The Evil Genius is twelve.  Oy!  They're a pair of contentious, fractious, constantly whirling dervishes, perpetual motion machines, super charged particles whizzing about with manic laughter and no desire to come to rest.

Yeah, I love 'em.  My babies.