“When ya gonna have another one?”

Oh yes, it’s begun. Now that Max is nearing age two, people are asking when they can expect the second spawning. Not if but when. I mean, you can’t have just one child; that’s just wrong. Are we talking about children here, or potato chips?

Here’s why one is more than enough right now.

As I type, Max is swinging from the bathroom doorknob with a butter knife in one hand and a can of Pledge in the other. Not to mention the flies in his teeth, oatmeal in his hair, and poop in his pants.

Our house is so small, Max sleeps in the porch. Because that’s all there is. A porch. A cleaning lady’s dream.

He came into the world via my vagina. It took less than three hours. Three drug-free hours. Did I mention he came out of my vagina? He may as well have come out of my nostril, or my pinky toenail. For many months, I wore caution tape instead of underwear. Now why on earth would I rush to do this a second time?

Max didn’t sleep through the night for ten months. Can a person go insane during this time? They certainly can. Sleep deprivation has been known to cause psychosis, as well as sarcasm and extreme hyperbole.

I breastfed him for the better part of a year. My reward? I save money on bras. Now I simply tuck the suckers right into my socks. Shoo! Shoo! Sorry, sometimes I get insects and rodents nipping at my feet, looking for a swig.

When we go for walks, he runs in the opposite direction. When he eats, he throws his food. When he sleeps, he wakes up to practice the quintessential horror movie scream. Why, I beseech you, would I add to this chaos? Oh yes, the tender moments. I do enjoy those. And lest we forget the $1,000 cheque! Thanks, Danny boy; that’ll get me a few new outfits for my bulbous bod. I mean diapers, yeah, diapers.

Seriously though, I would like another kid. There’s something sad about seeing an only child. Sure, they get spoiled at Christmas, but it’s little consolation for sitting under that tree all alone. No one to pull the other side of the wishbone. No need for bunk beds. No perfect-match internal organs to borrow down the road. No sister to share clothes with. No brother to help pick out your father’s casket, and share the weight.

Max will have a sibling. Just not yet. Our home, our bank account, and my womb are just not ready. And to all those who insist “you don’t want to have them too far apart” – please, chill. For now, the only things I’m keeping close together are my legs.