By: Tosha Woronov

See this?  This is Leo’s artwork that I am throwing away. Trashing.  I’ll bet those of you with kids under 2 will not understand this.  I barely believe it myself.

When Leo was 15 months old, I dragged him to an art center for toddlers.  For $12, the center provided us with 2 hours (we needed 2.5 minutes), a smock, an easel, paper, brushes, washable paint, and most importantly, a floor that belonged to someone else.  I was so excited!  He was so confused!  The kid learned to walk, like, only the day before, so all he really wanted to do was lean on the easel.  It also didn’t occur to me that he wouldn’t immediately know to pick up the brush, dip the brush in the paint, touch the paint-coated brush onto the paper, make a picture.  He just kind of stared at it all.  But still I was determined.  I grabbed his little hand and together we moved the paintbrush around on the paper.  A stroke of blue appeared.  He smiled. We swirled another design onto the page. And another.  He touched the paint. Yes!  Go buddy! Use your hands! Get dirty!  Create! Puh-leaze.  He just wanted to get that damn smock off and get his snack on.  All done mommy!  Creating over.  But still I framed it.  I was so proud.  It’s hanging in his room now, almost 4 years later.  His first – er, our first painting.  If you told me then that I would someday be throwing out his art, I would have scoffed at you, you heartless bastard.

Starting a family? Veteran parents will talk all day long about sleepless nights, the struggle to find “me-time”, the importance of preserving romance in your marriage.  But no one warns you about this.  Each day at pick-up time, Leo digs through his school take-home file, and proudly pulls out two, three, eight masterpieces – paintings, tiny little scraps of paper, hearts, rainbows, glitter-glue splattered motifs, feathers stuck to pom-poms stuck to popsicle sticks, elaborate, geometric, architectural-looking drawings that I know he spent forever on, and, every day, every single day, at least one piece that says “I love you Mommy (Daddy)”, or something to that effect.

Now imagine 6 months later, throwing them away.  His love, in writing.   Little fingers tightly clutching a red marker, his brain telling his arm to tell his hand to craft the letters M-O-M-M-Y …all so I can eventually THROW IT AWAY!!  Trust me, I keep everything, I do.  Ask anyone.  I am the queen of the sentimental.  I organize the shit out of it.  I keep a jar of his quotes, a box of his Halloween costumes, a timeline of his milestones.  But I simply cannot store all of the artwork.  It enters the house (or it’s created in the house), and goes immediately to the mail area so daddy can see it. Then it’s on to the fridge, or the walls of the playroom, or his bedroom, maybe even framed.  Everything else is pretty much stuffed into a large wooden in-tray, where it sits and grows, and GROWS until I can, about twice a year, sift through it all. Those that make the cut move on to their final resting place: giant plastic storage boxes labeled “Leo’s Art.”  We have two boxes so far: “Up to age 4” and “Age 4 to ___”. The rest goes in the TRASH.

And so here I sit, art piled all around, deciding what stays.  Which pieces will be here twenty years from now, to ooh and aah over with his girlfriend?  Who am I to judge?  How to choose one good rainbow over another?  There are 63 rainbow pictures to consider.  I counted.

Enter Leo: What are you doing?

(Whoops.  Busted.)

Me: Oh, just looking at all the beautiful art you made and organizing it.

Leo:  I will help you.

Me: Wonderful!!

Leo:  I made this rainbow when Gigi and Papa were here for my birthday.  I made this heart when I stayed home sick with the throw-ups.  I made this for daddy when he was on his trip.  I made this rainbow for you when you were sick with the throw- ups.    I made this one when I was 4 and 3/4 in art class. We used sticks and straws instead of brushes.   I made this in art class, too.  We used these sock things, filled with sand, and dropped them in the paint, so they would go splat! on the paper.  I made this at Thanksgiving with Gonnie when you were trying to make food for the party.  I made this on Easter. I made this for Charlie.   I made this…

Screw it.  We’ll just have to rent a storage unit.

By: Tosha Woronov

I’m sorry, but it’s quite possible that there is nothing cuter than a 5 year-old boy in a jacket and tie.  There’s just something so…unexpected about it.  Especially on a weekday afternoon, nowhere near a wedding, or a church, or an Easter brunch.  Leo just decided he wanted to wear his “handsome clothes” today and came downstairs fully decked out.  We ran errands; he accompanied me to the dentist.  For a kid who doesn’t really want attention, I don’t know what he was thinking.  The lady in the bakery called him – not her cupcakes – irresistible. A guy on the elevator said “Hello, Senator.” People walking by put their hands up to their mouths in disbelief.  I’m telling you, it was pretty cute.

And then he decided to wear a little pin on his lapel (I mean c’mon!) that just said “Love”.  Definitely rockin the campaign trail now.  I had to convince him, because it was raining buckets outside, that the rubber boots completed the look.

By:  Tosha Woronov

It’s 4am on a Wednesday night – err, Thursday morning, and I am up studying –cramming -for my BIG KIMONO presentation tomorrow at Leo’s preschool.

Yeah, that’s right. I am freaking out about having to speak before 4 and 5-year olds.
My insecurity has fallen to a new low.

Leo goes to a Montessori where the kids take yoga, cooking, French, music, drama, etc., all as part of the daily curriculum (music and Spanish on Mondays, art and gymnastics on Tuesdays…). And because it’s so sweet and done with such joy, it isn’t the kind of pretentious place that would normally make me gag or roll my eyes.

The annual Multicultural Fair is next week, and it’s a BIG DEAL. For a whole “semester”, the kids learn about the continents while incorporating a particular country or region into the normal curriculum (make quesadilla, paint a Frida Khalo). All season long, parents are invited to give mini presentations on various cultural traditions. One mom henna’d the teachers’ hands, another passed out dreidels. The whole celebration culminates in a multicultural potluck and gallery showing of the children’s artwork.

This is our 3^rd and final year with the school, and I had yet to sign up for multicultural month. Don’t get the wrong idea. I volunteer like crazy, but it’s always behind-the-scenes stuff: going to the flower market, painting the backdrop for the winter show, bringing juice boxes for harvest festival lunch, donating Leo’s new-ish basketball hoop and a few soccer balls, etc. I will not be the head of any Winter Show committee; I’m more comfortable at the minion level.

So to give an ACTUAL presentation? Me? Not so much. I get nervous. I sweat. If I know I’m to be around a group of people, for any type of reason, I will choose to wear a tank top in January because of the fear of lip sweat. I also talk fast. Really really really reallyreallyannoyingly fast, even though in my head, I sound perfectly articulate and well-spoken. I will be at a birthday party, and watch in amazement as other moms –each wearing some combination of a sweater, jacket, scarf, and a woolen beanie–not only enunciate their words, but do so while completely sweat-free.

But this is the year of the Tiger (go get ‘em and all that); I’m too old to be such a freak (I mean really, Tosha, pull it together); life is fun and worth every nervous butterfly; it’ll be great; it’s for Leo and …THEY ARE ONLY 5 YEARS OLD!

So I volunteered. My grandmother was Japanese, which makes me ¼ Japanese, but more importantly, Leo 1/8th. Grandma shared with me as much of her Japanese culture as she could, and apparently, I am one of the few grandchildren who really cared about that stuff while she was alive.  Once she passed, well, we ALL miss her, and we ALL want her egg rolls, and sushi; we miss her so much we might even be willing to try the Mega-Japanese funky food she made just for herself. We, her ½ and ¼-only Japanese progeny, could not believe the stuff she “cooked”. Live octopus and peacock eggs and I don’t know what else. She even had a separate refrigerator in the kitchen! It was right across from Grandpa’s / Everyone Else’s, which was stocked with bacon and whole milk and ketchup and grape jelly, and all the other stuff an old Iowa farm boy would have loved (different mustards. He loved different types of mustards). Grandma’s fridge held- Get out glandma’s flidge!

She was the best. She was creative, and funny, and kind of grumpy in a way that wasn’t really grumpy at all.  She would stuff a $20 bill in my pocket during a hug. She stayed up all night making beautiful (and sometimes weird) Japanese crafts – paper flowers, beaded ornaments.

When I was a teenager she gave me 2 kimonos and an elaborate and gorgeous brocade obi, and funny white “Tabi” socks, which have a big toe in them and about 15 metal snaps. I thought it would be nice to show the kids how to properly put on the kimono (“Kitsuke” – noun. The study of wearing kimono), and so I tossed off an email to the school a few weeks’ ago:

“Hi there! I would love to do a presentation on how to put on a kimono. Is that something that might interest the kids for the multicultural celebration? I am a kimono expert. I am wearing one right now! So is Peter! So is Leo! I am a certified kitsuke teacher. Or Master. Or Mastress. Please let me know what dates work for the school. Domo Arigato, Tosha (Leo’s Mom), Room 2.”

You saw this coming: I don’t know how to put on an f-ing kimono!! I never have! Grandma, pleeeeeease help me remember! All I can recall is me at 16, standing very still for a very very long time (I started to faint, and sweat), as you knotted and tied -rigorously tied -and pulled, and molded, and shaped into artwork this wicked long piece of fabric (“Obi” –noun. The long belt used to fasten and decorate a kimono. Japan.) around and around and around my body. Aunt Gracie and I just giggling! over your cute accent (“Wha?! Wa’s so funny?”).

And now I’m 37 years old grandma, and I have a baby – he’s 5, I wish you could have met him (you missed each other by about 6 months), and he needs me to NOT be a total freak tomorrow. He is excited about it – still young enough to be happy that I’m coming to his school, rather than mortified by the thought. He gets to help pass out the little take-home gifts I got for each child – gorgeous kimono bookmarks ordered straight from Japan.

Thanks to the internet, and YouTube in particular, I have been able to pull together a pretty shoddy idea of how to do this. I also learned some interesting facts to tell the kids (There are more than 400 ways to tie an obi! And Leo’s mommy cannot do…ONE!).

But I wish more than anything you were here, Grandma. So we could go out there, you and me, me as your sweaty dummy-model, and you with your perfect skin, and tiny frame, and grace, and adorable-ness, and together we could teach these kids a little somethin’.

By: Tosha Woronov

Recently Leo sang a little song to me.  It went like this: “Mom…I looooove you…I loooove you…and I loooove your…yellow teeth.”

(WTF?  Yellow!?  The kid knows his colors!  He could have at least said  “beige”.)

And then this morning, he announced, “I’m ready to brush my teeth now, poo-poo-head!”
Which got me to thinking: does my hair really look like shit? and –what the hell has happened to my sweet little boy?

We keep a jar of “Leo-isms” – random scraps of paper containing the crazy stuff Leo has said over the last 3 years, as well as his age at the time he said it (we didn’t understand a word he was saying until he hit 26 months, so the jar starts about then).  I am determined to document the crap out of this kid’s life, but I can’t take credit for the jar idea.  That came from The Year of Magical Thinking. In the book, my hero, Joan Didion, mentions a wooden box that houses the childhood witticisms of Quintana Roo, her daughter with John Dunne.

I have been reading through the jar today, trying to pinpoint when my angel got so saucy, and now I feel like sharing some of his better quotes.

Age 2 ½ (Finishes a cookie. Then): my burp smells like m&ms.

Age 3 (Pete, dressed in a suit and tie for a wedding, comes downstairs):  Oh Daddy!  You look SO CUTE!

Age 3  (Getting dressed, putting on a shirt, pops his head through neck hole):  It’s like a parking garage!

Age 3 ¼ (I was out of town for 2 nights.  He hugs me when I return):  Oh!  I can smell you!  You smell like a big cookie!

Age 3 ¼  (passing by a Catholic Church):  Look at that ‘school’!  It has a giant lower-case “t” on it!!! (not so religious, us)

Age 3 ¼  (over-hearing a man say that his friend has two degrees):  Wow!  That’s cold!

Age 3 ½  (“flirting” with a friend, age 10, on the phone): so, what kind of sippy cups do you have?

Age 3 ½ (in bed, after bedtime stories, lights out):  I’ll have a diet coke, please (he has never tasted a coke).

Age 3 ½ (looking at family pictures): And there’s mama.  I love that beautiful girl.

Age 4  (To mommy):  I love you for 102 years and as much as the whole world and all 3 big oceans together.  (To daddy):  I love you as much as…those bookshelves.

Age 4 (Singing along in the car to Bob Marley):  I CHOC-OLATE CHER-RY! But I didn’t shoot the deputy…

Age 4 (60 Minutes is on): Dad, do you want to come listen?  Rock Obama is going to talk.  Do you want to hear his talking?  His talking is so beautiful.

Age 4 (Walks in on me as I’m getting out of the tub.  Hasn’t seen me naked – lucky guy –since he was 3):  Gross!  Your penis is DISGUSTING!  (Ah!  Now I understand.  It started HERE, when he saw my penis.)

Age 4 ¾ (I am dressed for work.  Woke him up for school.  First words out of his mouth):  You don’t look good. Please change.

Age 5: Mom, do you like Dove? [What’s dove?] I saw it on tv, ‘moms love dove’. [Oh, the commercial?  Sure, I like Dove] You don’t look like you use it on your hair.  You don’t look like the moms in the commercial.

Age 5:  Mom, I can spell all the short words myself.  And even some long ones.  But don’t worry.  I’ll still need you.

Age 5: You’re the best mama in the world.  That means ‘I love you’ in my language.

Age 5 (while eating gold foil-wrapped chocolate coins, I remind him not to eat too many):  Mom, so far I’ve only had 75 cents.

Age 5 ¼: I don’t like my belly.  It doesn’t sleep well.

Age 5 ¼: Daddy, you have butter all over your arm. [I know, I’m sweaty.] Your sweat feels like butter all the time.

Last night:  I miss you, mommy, when I’m sleeping.

Me, too, buddy.   Me too.

By: Tosha Woronov

Sometimes it rocks to be an Angeleno. Pete took me to see the LA-only Pee-wee Herman live show at Club Nokia last weekend and all I can say is…genius!

I was a bit confused at first about what we were going to see.  I loved the Saturday morning program, but am just young enough (love saying that) to remember it only as a kids’ show. My husband, however, old man that he is (to be fair, only 4 years older than I), is a true Pee-wee fan and knows him for his adults-only humor.

The second we sat down, I got it.
And I was overjoyed.
The set (the Playhouse, just like it was on TV) is gorgeous, pure eye-candy.  All the old friends are there: Chairry, Terry, Jambi the Genie, Ms. Yvonne, Conky the robot, Cowboy Curtis, Magic Screen.  The audience clapped and hooted each time one entered the stage.

The word of the day was “FUN” (”waaaaaahhh!!!!”).  Boy, was it ever.
I had no idea that man/child Pee-wee was so surly!  So bratty!  It was hysterical, especially as parents of a 5-year old boy prone to his own low moments of churlishness, to hear Pee-wee say “I know you are, but what am I?” and “If you love it so much, then why don’t you marry it?”  He stomped and pouted and screamed.  We laughed and laughed and laughed.

My favorite moment:  Pee-wee protests, “they can’t marry each other!  They are GIRLS!” to which Conky replies (imagine robot voice), “they…can…in…Connecticut… and…Maine… and…Massachusetts …”

The crowd went wild!

I looked at my husband then and said, “This show is everything that is right with the world.”
It only runs until February 7^th, so if you live in Los Angeles, hurry.  You won’t regret it.   (And if you live elsewhere, make a wish that Pee-wee comes to your city.  Mecca lecca hi, mecca hiney ho…)

By: Tosha Woronov

Well I did it. I learned to knit. Marcy and May, two cuties at Stitch Cafe, taught me in about 45 minutes how to make a scarf.

Here it is, so far.
I love doing it, I love that my fingers and 2 sticks are actually making something a person could (but probably will not want to) wear.

But I would not call this relaxing. How do you find the time?
“Ok, Leo, I will play with you as soon as I finish this scarf. It will only take 7 or 8 weeks.”
I thought I could knit while watching a movie with Pete, but every time I looked up at the screen I would screw something up (which is very stressful. I was not taught how to fix mistakes, only to not make them).

I also cannot imagine how to make anything other than a scarf. I fantasize about making a hat –or gloves! Fingers must be a real bitch.

Marcy said the ball of yarn with which I knit is enough for one scarf, but I have no idea what happens when I get to the end of the ball.

This might be it, my one knit wonder.

By: Tosha Woronov

Here it is, only the second week of the New Year and nothing has changed, resolution-wise, from years prior. Except that my list of resolutions is on my iPhone.

I have always been pretty hard on myself, seldom satisfied with who I am, looking to change, improve. So the start of each year for me means an exhausting period of self-analysis and criticism. But I’m beginning to realize that constantly claiming that one is too hard on one’s self probably means by definition that one is not hard on one’s self at all and is really just a big f-ing lazy fraud.

And the fact is, my resolutions are in total conflict.

Not only do I have a list as long as my arm, but one of them is to *Be less list-y.

Some are super-specific – *Get Leo to school on time.
Others, pretty general – *Be nice to Peter.
(Ha! I barked at him at 8am on 1/1, probably because he said good morning! with his cheerful happy loving face. Blech. And because the realization that I had already blown one of the most sacred of my resolutions before even opening my eyes to 2010 depressed me so much, I barked even more because who gives a shit now? About any of it! Might as well cross out resolutions 2, 5, 9, and 16 while I’m at it, and, instead, skip spinning, eat an EggMcMuffin, and take a morning nap.)

There has always been the diet/weight/nutrition/exercise/total body health category on my list. When I was 22 I had some along the lines of *Become a vegan! and *Run as many 10ks as possible.
After Leo was born it was *Lose those last 5 pounds. (That number keeps creeping up.)
Next year it will probably be *Eat at least one vegetable in 2011 and *Refrain from taste-testing the crusted-over ice cream that landed on your shirt the night before.

Now I have added (in an effort to save money, be a better mom, be a better wife) *Cook at home! And I really have; I have cooked more in the last 2 weeks than in all of 2009. But it’s been enchiladas one night and steak another (huh? It was on sale at Whole Foods –an oxymoron -and I couldn’t pass it up), so needless to say, the weight is just falling off of me.

There is always at least one resolution (especially since Leo came along) in the genre of cutting myself some slack and just loving me for me. Slow down. Breathe. No mother is perfect. This year it is *Enjoy these times.
But directly below that is *Stop spending and save more (yeah, that’s enjoyable).

Knowing I suck at keeping any of these promises to myself, I tried a new approach this year: I added after each one the name of a friend or family member who exemplifies the desired behavior. A model, if you will. My inspiration. A shout-out to Brandy, Julie, Audrey, Maria, and Kelsi, who are named multiple times.

I included a few that I look forward to, like *Learn to knit. For Christmas I asked for knitting classes and all the stuff I’d need to get started. Peter hooked me up.

Really, I should just try to be more like my husband, who never has a mean word for me, laughs all the time, provides a seemingly bottomless well of patience, love, and energy to our son, is kind to his in-laws (number 7), always gets Leo to school early, and would never, ever waste his time writing up a stupid New Year’s Resolutions list.

By: Tosha Woronov

I am not the sort of woman who has a problem with football, or who doesn’t “get” it. Born and raised in Colorado, I grew up with the Broncos. As much as I hated Sundays – homework, the end of the weekend, the end of fun – the sounds of the game coming from the 2 or 3 televisions in the house offered solace. While writing a book report I could, without looking up, follow the game by the occasional whoo-hoos! or damnits! coming from my parents.

And then I met Peter, who brought a whole new level -or, division -of football to my world. It wasn’t just the Broncos anymore, it was the Giants. And it wasn’t just Sunday, but, because of Syracuse, it was any day or night of the week. (Ok, I have to admit, during this phase, I played the irritated girlfriend and later wife, annoyed that I was supposed to suddenly care about the, gulp, Big East on a, c’mon!, Wednesday!)

When Leo was born, wishing that he would love sports (even though his parents do) was not at the top of my list. I hoped more that he would be healthy, happy, smart, somewhat calm, sociable, silly, maybe artistic. We are lucky, because Leo is all of those things and more (wickedly funny, sweeter than sweet, cautious, brave, insightful, intuitive, sensitive, nuts).

But suddenly, this year – oh my. He is a football fan! He has been taught to consider the NY Giants (daddy) and the Denver Broncos (mommy), and he does, definitely. But because he loves the game in general, he watches all of them, picking a team to root for each time. He cheers wildly for the Green Bay Packers (huh?) and the Baltimore Ravens (wha?). I had to remind him once, while wiping his tears, that it was ok that the Lions lost, because he is not from Detroit. He cried for the Bengals and the unexpected death of 26 year-old wide receiver Chris Henry (wondering aloud yesterday during the game when Henry would be back to play). I allowed us to sit in the bar of an Italian restaurant the other night so he, along with about 12 other men, could watch the undefeated New Orleans Saints be defeated by the Cowboys. (Excited by the whole perfect record thing, how crushed he was by their fall from grace.) He knows every team’s record, which can be a little scary. Over Thanksgiving, he wowed his grandfather – and kept him company – catching every minute of every game, both pro and college. He checks the NFL television schedule on my iPhone and knows that SEA means the Seattle Seahawks, CHI means the Bears, and NE the Patriots. He is bummed when a much-anticipated game is not carried on one of our cable channels. If he knew to ask for it, the only thing on his Santa list would be DirectTV. I must remind you that he is tiny, barely five years old. I’m not sure what is more fun to watch: his concentration (”Mom! They sacked the quarterback!” “Dad! It’s second and five!”) or his enthusiasm (”Let’s go Giants, let’s go!” clap-clap-clap! – repeat 300 times).

Like his daddy, he doesn’t just watch. The kid can throw a spiral 20 yards and will slam his little body on the ground to catch a pass. He even taught me to throw a football – the right way – the way I always wished I could. I never thought I’d hear my child say “Good job mom! That was a bullet!” My favorite thing to do each night is watch my husband and my son throw the football back and forth in the living room, Leo diving wildly into the end zone (the couch). I am happy that I am a mom who allows footballs to be thrown in the house (no punts though. I immediately put the stop to punting).

It’s funny to me, now that he has become this fan, that I never thought to want it for him in the first place. It’s who he is, and we are having a blast. And isn’t that what football is all about?

By: Tosha Woronov

I am being challenged.
I spent the entire month of November–one of my favorite months –SICK. I am not kidding: I have been sick since November 2nd.

I am still sick. Bronchitis. I never had it before. I had NO IDEA. 2 doctor visits, 3 phone conversations with the doctor, 4 calls with the nurse, or nurse practitioner, 2 courses of antibiotics, cough syrup with codeine (my best friend for about 5 whole minutes), one B-12 shot (LOVED that! Where can I get me some more B12 shot?), and chest x-rays (which came back clean – what the hell?).

I cough so hard that I pee my pants like, every 3 hours. All I do is wash pants. Pajama pants.
I have gone into the office only 3 days the entire month of November. All 3 of those times, because I was dying at my desk, I considered leaving. But truthfully, the real reason I ran out early is because I had peed my pants.

I spent my 10th anniversary (yes, 10!), Thanksgiving (my favorite holiday), and my birthday coughing my lungs out, or trying to.

And people only talk about the swine flu. That’s all you hear. H1N1. Do get your shot, it might save your life. Don’t get the shot, it will kill you. Get the shot if you have a baby under 6 months old. Get the shot if you are over 65. Don’t get the shot if you are 37, unless you have asthma. It’s the IN THING. But I have bronchitis. Plain old, been-around-forever bronchitis. It’s sooo 1972. Even my virus is out of touch.

I am nervous, though, about the flu (both of them, all of them, whatever). I open doors with my elbow sleeve. I panic if the canister of antibacterial wipes near the shopping carts is empty. I say to Leo all day long, “don’t touch ANYTHING.”

My new obsession, my mantra, if you will, is “INCUBATION PERIOD”. The phrase runs through my mind all day: “My mom and my hairdresser also have coughs that won’t go away. Hmmm…and I saw both of them the first week in October. Did we actually get/give the same virus from/to each other? I mean, did the same nasty, evil, little germ (I picture him wearing dirty suspenders and a hat) jump off of her scissors onto my head and then on to my innocent mom, here from Colorado to see her grandson? And if so, does it really take 21 days for the virus to present itself? What is its INCUBATION PERIOD? Is Leo in the clear, because he’s shown no symptoms? Or is his INCUBATION PERIOD strangely, inexplicably, longer? What, please tell me, is the INCUBATION PERIOD of bronchitis in the body of a 5 year old?!” I am losing my mind.

And I’m sorry readers; I got nothing else.

By: Tosha Woronov

We are not having any more kids. We are stopping at one. Leo will be -barring some change of heart, mind, plan – an Only Child.

The decision has been made and yet…the discussion won’t stop.

Here are the conversations I have been having -

-with my husband:
me: I am just so afraid we are doing a disservice to him.
him: We’re not. He’s awesome. We’re awesome.
me: I don’t want him to be lonely.
him: He won’t be. I promise. He won’t be.
(long silence)
him again: We are three.

-with Leo:
him: Please give me a baby brother mommy. I promise I will take care of him.
me: I know you would, honey, but I need you to understand that the baby would be tiny, and you will not be able to play baseball with him for like, 5 years.
him: I know that. I would take care of him until I can play baseball with him.
me: Do you realize that daddy might not be able to pitch to you as much, because he will be taking care of the baby?
him: Then you can pitch to me.
me: But I might be making the baby’s bottle or something.
(long silence)
me again: See, Daddy and I think this works so well, just the three of us. We like having just you. We like that we get to spend more time with just you.
(pause)
him: Ok, I don’t want a baby brother anymore.

-with his family:
them: You really don’t think you’ll have any more? I am so surprised! Is this how Peter feels too?
me: He’s actually more sure than I am.
another of them: I just want to announce to everyone that, in the spring, we are going to start trying for a second!

-with my family:
them: oh, just have another one!
them: you won’t regret it.
them: trust me.

-with friends:
me: I just feel guilty that Leo will be alone.
them: You don’t have a craving to get pregnant?
me: Oh, god, not at all.
them: Then don’t give it another thought. I just want to be pregnant again so badly.

-with acquaintances/strangers:
them: Are you guys having any more?
me: I don’t think so. I think we’re done.
them: That is sooo interesting.
them again: But look how gentle he is with her! How could you not give him a baby sister?

-with myself:
me, me, me: what is wrong with me? Why don’t I have the urge? I am defective. That’s crazy, I have a child! Why is one not enough? He is incredible, a miracle. I could never love another child as much as I love him. But people do, you know they do. What am I going to do when he doesn’t need me any more? What if I suffocate him? Our love, all on just him, that’s too much pressure. But another baby would kill us, break us. What if he needs it? Are we selfish? We can be three and happy or – god -four and divorced. They seem so stressed out, so exhausted. We have an easy flow, the three of us. I love our little team. But their kids have each other. Leo is all alone. I am the worst mother in the world. Oh my god, the cost of preschool for 2 kids! How do people do it? I’m sure Peter would want another one if I had been better at it the first time. Why don’t I want another one? What is wrong with me? I cannot believe Leo will be an Only Child. I cannot imagine another soul taking root in my heart. I wish I had the answer.