Are You Going to Have Another One?

I like being a mom. I have one son.

I don't know if I want more children.

I almost didn't write that.

The oldest of four now-grown girls, I was the built-in babysitter. The second mom in charge. I broke up physical fights, helped with the dishes, the weeding and, later, the driving. I whined about fairness and was mean on purpose. I watched my six-year-old sister threaten my mother: "I'll jump," she challenged from the top of the eight-foot brick retaining wall next to our pool.

These things have a lot to do with why I was "pretty sure" I didn't want to have a kid.

But.

I cherish my baby. I brush his whisps of hair, plaster white Desitin over any red, laugh when he shows me what the fishy says and hold on tight during morning squeezes. My heart races when he lays his head on top of my shoulder. And, seeing his eyes crinkle as Daddy walks in the door, I have to take a deep breath -- inhale this blessed life.

But.

I fret over fevers, rashes and the dried oatmeal on his face. I cry as I pack teeny socks in a blue bin. I store swings, bouncers and play mats because it is too heartbreaking to get rid of them. I panic that the sweet scent of his feet will be replaced by the stench of sour teenage boy socks, and those six little teeth in his mouth may as well mean he's a man.

Can I do it all again someday? I figure I have a few more years to decide.