White Knuckle Parenting: The Magic Number

I remember the exact moment I knew I was done having children.

I was stopped at a traffic light after a visit to the pediatrician's office. I had three kids under the age of five strapped into their car seats and they were not pleased. I had spent a long wait at the doctor's office corralling and trying to keep those kids happy through the waiting room, the tiny examination room, and, based on their age, probably a vaccination—that part I don't remember. I blocked a lot of that screamy-type stuff out.

That was a year of my life that I have very little memory of. I had a one-year-old who refused to walk, a three-year-old who was headed down the road to an autism diagnosis, and a four-year-old who never stopped talking. I don't remember a lot about that year, but I remember that moment at the traffic light.

"I can't successfully parent any more kids," I thought to myself. "I can maybe parent these guys, but I cannot do any more. I am done."

It wasn't that I was worried about having another special needs child. That didn't play into it at all. It wasn't that I was worried about paying for a fourth college tuition or finding time to fit in baseball practice for everyone. No, it was more based on the knowledge that if I had more than three kids that I would probably routinely send at least one of them to preschool having forgotten to put pants on him.

I mean, I already had to use two different carts at the grocery store—one for kids and one for groceries. It was either that or let them run amok in the produce section—or preface every incidence of dumping jars of baby food on a toddler in the cart with, "Here, hold this, sweetie."

Frankly, by the time I hit that stop light with at least one wailing kid in the backseat, I was completely done with strangers taking a look at me and saying, "You sure have your hands full!" I could live a long, happy life without ever hearing that sentence again.

I love the idea of huge families. A busy household packed full of five or six kids sounds fantastic to me, not just for the fun and camaraderie of early childhood and teendom, but because once those kids reach adulthood, they would have an extensive support network. I always say that my goal with my kids is to unite them as a team. If they end up close as adults, I will feel that I've done my job as a parent.

Here's the thing though. I would need a surrogate, a live-in nanny, and a lottery win to be able to birth and take care of that many kids. I know there are people who can do it without those things, but I am not one of them.

Some people can raise six kids. Some people can raise one. Both choices (and others, as well) are valid. There are perks to both. For us, the magic number was three. I don't know how we came to that number, but it was semi-unspoken that we wanted that number of kids. I know when I had two kids that I wasn't ready to buy frames with two openings. I knew that the frames with room for three photos were for us.

Still, it wasn't until that afternoon at the traffic light that I knew for sure. Frankly, if my kids could have handled a trip to Target, I would have stopped on the way home, stuffed them all into a cart, braved the "you sure have your hands full" ladies, and bought the tri-fold frame.

I know that my husband and I are so fortunate that we agreed on how many kids we wanted and we were further lucky that we were able to have those kids when and how we wanted. Not everyone has that choice, and we know how easy we had it.

Now, more than five years after that stop at the traffic light, I feel good about my kids and I feel good about my parenting. More than that, I feel good about our choice to stop at three. Yes, part of me still loves the idea of a basketball team of kids, but the rest of me, the overwhelmingly bigger side of me, still knows that I can parent three kids—and only three kids.

Sometimes you just know.

Jean, a.k.a. Stimey, writes a personal blog at Stimeyland; an autism-events website for Montgomery County, Maryland, at AutMont; and a column called Autism Unexpected in the Washington Times Communities. You can find her on Twitter as @Stimey.