A friend once told me that eventually the desire for more children would eventually pass. Her goal was to have all of her kids by the time she was thirty; she had four.

Another couple we know had all they could with a deadline of thirty-five years old for the mother; they had five.

When my husband and I got married I wanted three children and he wanted one. Obviously we blew those numbers out of the water. We’ve never set a goal for how many children we’d have or how old we’d be when we finished. In the last year, however, I’ve realized that I’m content with our numbers. The desire for more has finally faded.

Two nights ago I decided to clear out and reclaim most of the top shelf of my wardrobe, which has housed baby blankets, burp cloths, and waterproof pads for the past few years. That night I dreamed that I was six months pregnant, due in June, certainly a reaction to this mental finishing of a chapter in my life.

The box went to the basement this evening.

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