I was having a conversation with a friend the other day who was seemingly trying to convince me that I needed / wanted a 4th child. Don’t get me wrong, there was definitely a time I did. Part of me would consider it if Willy had any desire but I digress because this morning I was looking out our kitchen window at our backyard; the little patch of grass that filled what was once a pool covered with rusted scooters, broken skateboards, pots I’ve washed out with intentions to put plants in that still sit inside our living room slowly dying, an upside down plastic pool that I’m quite certain all three boys have pissed in at one point or another. And that’s just the grass area, never mind the makeshift side yard fence that I’m always nervous Jimmie will get through, the beach umbrella that has been carried by recent storms from one end of the yard to the other, the random holes where worms have been vacated from their homes. The thought crossed my mind that our home is too big for me to keep up with. I felt old in my thought process; commiserating with retired folks who size down because they no longer want the ‘burden’ of keeping up; the ‘burden’ all us young folk work so hard to obtain. And somewhere in the rush of getting the kids fed and ready, the connection of it all came to me; I truly don’t think I have enough in me to give another child. Like I’m barely filling cups as it is – both literally (as in they drink all their milk before I even put the milk away) and figuratively. Most days, I’m just treading water; hoping plants don’t die before we get a chance to pot them, making sure the good bikes are inside when it rains so they don’t rust, and making sure there’s enough milk in the fridge to get us through the next morning.

I have to believe I’m not alone. I know I’m not alone.