From little seeds tall trees grow

Tonight I did my most hated of tasks on the domestic schedule. I sorted through my baby's clothes and packed away the ones that are too little. Most people think I rank about the same on the emotional warmth scale as plankton. It's true, not much can reduce me to a jellied mess - I'm slightly cynical about most things. But get me to pack away a baby jumpsuit that my little man wore hours after he was born and which will now not even fit on his giant melon head as a weird hat and I am a wreck. Even while the little guy grins and squints up into my face shouting "a-ya-ya-ya-YA-YA".

The only thing that gets me through it is knowing that the next likely candidate for those little clothes will be another Jenny-Chris masterpiece. Cousin Chloe gets about in Charlotte's clothes quite a bit (Jenny inherited EVERYTHING of Charlotte's and, happily, she actually uses it) and it is enormously satisfying to see those things getting about on a little person that we all adore so completely. Far more satisfying than dropping them into a Salvos bin. I take comfort that one day they will have a little sprout of their own who can gad about in the super-cute overalls we bought for James. But still there are tears.

This is not a new phenomenon. I cried every time I did the clothing sort with Charlotte. You'd think I'd be over it by now. But I still cry every time I have to do it for James. Charles caught me at it once and the look he gave me indicates that he clearly thinks I'm mental. As a father he's thrilled that his offspring are growing by the second and for him, there's just nothing tocry about.

This time it's worse because in all likelihood he will be my last baby. Charles and I always agreed that two children was the right number. We think it's financially responsible, environmentally responsible...and aside from all that responsibility there is the niggling thought at the base of my skull that one more baby will actually kill me.

Still, tonight over dinner, when Charles casually mentioned that he thought it was time to arrange a delicate snip to ensure there are no further offspring, I felt the rise of panic. His eyebrows shot up in total disbelief. "You want another one?"

"Ygnooooo..... But what if we change our minds later?"

Charles' expression left me in no doubt that "we" will not change our minds - he firmly believes I'm the only one who would (and he's almost certainly correct). It's interesting because, while I love my kids, I really, really don't want any more. I'm happy with the way things are - I ride the knife edge of insanity quite comfortably - I manage to wrangle, not strangle - and I am almost 100% certain that we're operating at the safe working load limit for my maternal machinery. Any more pressure and gaskets will start to blow.

So why all the angst? Frankly I'm blaming the biological clock. There is no logical reason at all to have another baby. I don't want another baby. Another baby would probably sink my career, our finances and our marriage. And yet some horrible part of my brain, which appears to be impervious to logic and reasoning, whispers "why not have just one more?" As soon as the technology is developed, I will have this traitorous group of rebel synapses excised neatly. In the meantime I'll probably go along with Charles' plans to take permanent steps to end the debate just to spite those wretched little brain cells. But I doubt I'll ever stop crying as I pack away those teeny weeny clothes...