My baby turns 1 today. My last baby is not longer a baby; now he’s a 1 year old. I won’t bore or gross you out with the dramatic tale of his birth. It’s cliche, but that seems so long ago now. I remember staying in the hospital room with him. Just watching him sleep; obviously not sleeping myself. And now his growing up just marks my own aging.
Don’t get me wrong, we are very much done having kids. My pregnancies were rough, for several reasons. And there are loads of financial reasons why two is a good stopping point. If Sir and I are honest, kink is a pretty big factor too. I think there is a part of us that want them already grown and out of the house. If we had found D/s before we had kids, I’m not sure we would have. (I hate that I think that some times.)
But right now, looking at him so big and almost walking; I really want another one. He was cruising around the lake house today and was just reminding me how tiny he use to be. When he would fall asleep on our chests and cuddle. I was folding up some of his clothes that have gotten too small and it was just so sad that he would never fit into them. That I wouldn’t have another little one to fill them.
I’ll be fine. Two is plenty. We have our hands full and Sir and I don’t get enough time together as it is. But I’m sure these birthdays will get more nostalgic. It doesn’t help that I’m turning 30 in a few weeks either. I’ll have another emotional break down about that later. Right now, cake.