The scene: driving to my parents’ house, about an hour away. Older boys taking advantage of “mom’s not working or doing chores” to pick my brain on everything they’ve been thinking about lately, including but not limited to multiplication, Clone Wars, if The Hobbit is out on DVD yet and whether or not Peter Jackson was crazy to stretch it to three movies (Harry says yes), if we’ll stay in hotels on our vacation and if those hotels will have pools…
…everything, in short.
Harry: Mom, are you going to have any more babies?
Me: *barflaughing* No, buddy, I’m all done. I like my three boys.
Harry: That’s good.
Me: I’m comfortable with it.
Harry: After all, who would have more than three babies?
Me: *snickering* I’m the oldest of four, remember, hon?
Harry: Well, of course you are. Back in olden times, like when you were born, people had bigger families because there weren’t good medicines and hospitals, and lots of babies died.
Me: Dude, I’m THIRTY-FIVE, not Laura Ingalls Wilder.