We were going to stop at two. Two kids that is. We had even taken some admittedly reversible but not-inexpensive steps to make sure we didn’t have a third.
Then my aunt cracked a joke.
"When are you gonna get that fertile Italian wife of yours pregnant again," she said over the phone one Thanksgiving. I laughed heartily at the time, knowing she was kidding … or at least half-kidding. Despite coming from a family of eight kids, my father ended up being the only one of his male siblings to have a son. But this was the first time any of them had even hinted that I should think about having more kids. But think, I did.
My wife and I loved the two kids we had already, but they were a ton of work! Diapers, feedings, play dates, school, homework, Cub Scouts, soccer, ballet, etc., etc. Where would we find the time? Would we need a bigger house? Could we ever afford to go on vacation again?