Its That Time Again. . . . .

My youngest is now three years old and that means its that time again — time to get pregnant. When my first son turned three I did it. Then when my daughter turned three I did it again. And now that my younger son is three well. . . . .How could I not do it?
My husband has zero interest in a fourth child, so there’s that, plus truth be told I am only just now starting to enjoy my freedom, or at least that little bit of it that comes from having all of one’s kids squared away in school by 8:45 in the morning.
But. And yet. Standing in the lobby of my son’s nursery school this morning tightening my sneakers before heading out for a run all I could think was, I wish I had a baby waiting for me at home. No one’s waiting at home. Of course when I had babies I would often go running in the morning when they were asleep, while I was gone they would inevitably wake up and so they would be quite literally waiting for me, or at least my milk-filled breasts, when I returned, the whole thing a bit of a pressured hassle as I remember it. 
But. And so. Tell me one thing in life that’s worth doing that isn’t a bit of a hassle. 
Pretend I’m a baby, says my three-year old, practically reading my mind when I meet him this afternoon for his swim class. Hold me like a baby, he commands, as together we slip into the pool. And though my neck and shoulders are sore from carrying him for much of a hike we took this weekend, I scoop him up close in my arms. Oh baby, I whisper, you’re my special and before I can say baby again he wrestles himself free and dunks right under the water.