You know what I’m glad about? I’m glad that there’s not a person who comes up to you right before you die, opens an envelope, and whispers, “this is what you should have been: astronaut.” Like the grim reaper, except more accountant-y.
Because I’m not sure, but maybe I’m supposed to have like 5 kids? And that’s not going to happen, because it’s just not. But I’ve been really feeling the kids lately.
First, I spent the day with four little girls on Friday:
I knew it was going to happen and I was kind of apprehensive about it all week, but it was actually so much fun. I basically just washed dishes while listening to their bonkers conversations, helped them in and out of various costumes, fed them lunch and then blew bubbles while they popped them. Smooth sailing.
And then we went camping this weekend with about 20 kids between the ages of 2 and 12, which was which was 100% my jam. Children I had never seen before would just wander up and sit on my lap, drink out of my water bottle, ask me if I had any of those colored marshmallows–not white ones–preferably pink, but they’d also accept purple or blue. Odessa ran and fought and sang and hugged and swindled food out of other people’s parents. They were all filthy and juiced up on sugar cereal:
It was completely delightful. I also hope I don’t get strep throat because at one point I got kissed on the lips by a little boy whose brother ended up having it.
Anyway, back to my dilemma. Let me break it down for you:
On the one hand, having between 4 and 10 children makes a lot of sense because they’re rare, sparkly, adorable treasures, and there’s always a little, greedy part of my soul that will want more.
On the other hand, having even one kid can be super annoying about 46% of the time. I know this, and have shared with you my findings on the particulars on several occasions.
So, what should I do? Have 4 more kids in the next 5 years, or not?