Mr. Sandy is cleaning out the garage, and things are going in three general categories: to the dump, to be donated, to be kept.
He came across the baby stroller. "We really are done, right?"
We really are done. A third child would tip us into precarious territory financially, emotionally, and physically (a pregnancy at 40 isn't a no-brainer). I also have strong feelings about there being plenty of people in the world already. I know that large families living simply can leave less "footprint" than smaller ones living carelessly, as so many do, but still. There are enough people in the world already.
So, we're done. Really.
Still, we both think about it sometimes. That door is hard to close. I don't think I want to hear it latch behind me.