The dangerous age

When my babies are 6 months old they just become the essense of adorable, I simply want to eat them right up. Timmy is now chubby, with a real "budda belly" that simply asks to be zerberted. Mary and I take turns after his bath tickling his armpits and under his chin making him laugh and show off that toothless grin. He has huge blue eyes, with large lashes, looking just like the Gerber baby on his box of rice mush. To top it off he started moving in a coordinated fashion a few days ago after Maggie put out a few toys a foot in front of him, "Come on Timmy, crawl to the toy. You can do it. Yeah!! What a smart little boy!"

What is dangerous when they become so cute, reliably sleep through the night, and smile all the darned time is that I forget that "this too is a phase" and start thinking about having another baby. Because they are easy to care for and give megawatt smiles at everyone, so more of such a good thing must be better, right? Plus, the protection against ovulating from breastfeeding seems to naturally fade right around my 6-9 month mark. It is almost like a giant conspiracy to bring more children into our family. But I am overwhelmed some days with the children I already have. I don't want to balloon up again right after I have worked so hard to lose weight and become fit. Moving while pregnant? Yuck. And I simply don't like maternity fashions, at all.

However, part of me deep inside wants another baby and at that moment when I trudge into the doctor's office with all 5 rambunctious children behind me to get the official test I will develop an inner calm. The nurse will looks at all of us incredulously, "Lady, you do know how this happens, right?" I will smile right back and say, "If everyone had children this lovely, they would all have 10 kids."