L has it. And bad. The memories of the traumatic births of our two children have, apparently, completely faded from her mind. Tristan Davison is mostly to blame, of course; If he hadn’t come along and been so stinking cute, we wouldn’t be where we are today.
As the lone voice of reason in all this madness (don’t you ever again want to sleep your own bed without a child in it? Think how many pairs of shoes you could buy with daycare tuition, etc.) I’ve been cast as a heartless baby hater. But I don’t hate babies. I love babies! And the best babies of all are the babies I can pick up and snuggle for five minutes and then hand off to their parents as they walk out the door. And I love my own babies, for sure. I just don’t want another one. No matter how beautiful our babies turn out. To support my claim, here’s a photo of me, kissing my first-born child when she was but a wee tot:
I rest my case.