Last night, my husband took all the kids to the playground after dinner. He ran into a neighbor whose son loves to play with Hannah. "We haven't seen you in a while," he said in a cheerful greeting. "Oh my, you've had another baby!" she exclaimed when she saw Mia Bean sleeping in her stroller.
She skipped over saying how cute Maria was, and instead launched into this long, tortured explanation at all the reasons why she couldn't have another child, none of which I'll repeat here other than to assure you, gentle readers, that none of them involved the physical inability to bear another child.
After fifteen minutes of explanation, Jon was so unsettled that he took the kids home early. "I don't know why she would get so agitated and feel the need to take me into her confidence like that. I never suggested that she should have another child," Jon said.
"You didn't have too!" I replied. "Maria did all the work."
I truly believe that. There's all this talk about children growing up to change the world. Maria's already this powerful force- a gorgeous third child when everyone else in America seems content with one girl and one boy. Our neighbors knew that we are struggling. There's no secrete suitcase of money stashed away under our bed. Yet there is my husband, at the same apartment-complex playground that she shares, hanging out with yet another newborn.