A few weeks ago, I saw yet another new hairdresser.
“How many kids do you have?” she asked, as women getting to know other women do.
“Just one,” I answered.
Then came the inevitable question. “Are you going to have more?”
I was quiet for a moment, not sure what I was going to say. And when the answer came, it surprised even me.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I’m getting kind of old to pop out babies. I think maybe we’re in the one and done camp.”
She just nodded and said, “Yeah, me too.”
We spent the rest of the appointment talking about our girls, and how nice it was to be done with baby things, and to be able to get our lives back (at least a little bit).
But the whole time, I was silently evaluating how the phrase “one and done” felt as it ricocheted around my brain. It wasn’t something I had ever said out loud before.
And you know what? It felt okay.
I feel okay.
Would part of me still like to have a newborn to snuggle? Yes.
Do I miss burp cloths and blowouts and teething infants? Not a bit.
I love my husband. Can’t imagine having a child any more awesome than my Tori. And honestly? I kind of like me, too. I’m pretty cool when not exhausted and suffering from postpartum depression.
So, that’s that. The cat’s out of the bag. The decision’s made.
I’m the mom of one fabulously awesome, insanely challenging child. An only child.
And that? Is a pretty awesome thing to be.