I have officially entered the ‘no fly zone’. What, you might ask, does this mean? It’s hard to put eloquently into words so let me just give it to you straight. Abbott turned 7 months last week. 7 months, for those of you with little babies who might not know, is the exact moment your baby will not seem like a baby anymore – in a very drastic way, they will suddenly seem like little people. BUT they will also seem more awesome than they ever have, which I know seems hard to believe but trust me on this one (I have evidence which we’ll soon get to). They are eating solids, sitting up, getting ready to move, laughing, lighting up when you enter any room, responding to you in hilarious ways, showing signs that they enjoy certain activities more than others, they have opinions and little senses of humor and little sassy attitudes – THEY ARE SUDDENLY LITTLE ADORABLY AWESOME PEOPLE. And if you’re anything like me, this is when the misery of maternity leave, breastfeeding, sleepless nights and postpartum side effects somehow just melt away. Enter the ‘no fly zone’. Just like that YOUR OVARIES ARE DANCING LIKE SUGAR PLUMS IN DECEMBER AND YOUR BRAIN SAYS, “THAT WAS EASY LET’S DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN!!!!”

I’m obviously a weak person because – well, look at me and my two children born in consecutive years (EVIDENCE) – so I’ve put myself in a ‘no fly zone’ meaning I need to keep my ovaries in check and my psychotic brain out of the delusional clouds. I also realized over the weekend that I need to stay far away from little girls because suddenly I WANT TO KNOW WHAT MY DAUGHTER’S HAIR WILL LOOK LIKE. I want to buy tutus and ridiculous little rompers. I want to buy ribbons and braid hair. I want a little girl to raise to be independent and strong and adventurous. I want a little girl to name Wilder because, to me, Matheson, Abbott and Wilder sounds like a literary trio of polite badasses. Wilder would be so perfect!

UGH. Go away you 7 month bliss.

One month ago we were sure we were done – because we most likely are. I don’t think I actually want a third baby. I don’t want to have to pay for more daycare. And I don’t want to be outnumbered by small people for the next 18 years. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to be pregnant again – I don’t want to put my body through that. I don’t want to have to split my attention even more. But there’s alway a “but” or a “maybe if” or “what if?” – do you ever really know you’re done?? Or will I be fighting this for the next 5 years (until my body tells me it’s no longer an option)?!

Having one child has opened these weird flood gates I never even knew were there….