No more

Even though

I’d love to see what other permutations of unbelievably-gorgeous Alan’s and my genes combined can come up with, and

I have more baby names to use up, and

I still like the idea of having 3 kids, and

babies at 7 months old (anywhere from 4 months old, really) are the most delightful things ever, and

I feel like I’ve got the whole birthing thing down now, and

I love Moses and Hazel more than the sweetest clichés...

we’re not having more kids.*

Because

we can’t afford a cleaner, nanny and cook, and

my maternity bras are falling apart, and

I desperately need time away from people (including [especially?!] my children) in order to function well, and

I don’t enjoy being pregnant, and

my womb has proven fairly fussy about the embryos it keeps, and I really don’t want to have (or even risk) another miscarriage, and

I don’t feel like I have the capacity to be the mother I really want to be (Jesus-y, available, patient, energetic, calm, interesting, organised) to more than two little people (at the moment even two is pushing it), and

I don’t feel like I have the capacity to be the grandmother I really want to be (should my children one day have their own) to the kids of more than two people, and

I currently spend quite a bit of time with a three-year-old, which keeps things in perspective when looking at photos of babies (yes, they’re adorable, but in a few years’ time they will argue with you even when they know they’re wrong).

So, no more*.

* Unless we accidentally do… (Hello, Child #3! We love you!! Best surprise ever!!!!)