Miranda and I weren’t sure that we wanted to have a second child, mostly because our daughter is such a high-spirited, high-energy burst of human lightning that we had doubts about our ability to cope with the increase in family size. When we did take the leap, we hoped fervently for another daughter – human lightning bolt or not, our daughter is an amazing kid, and Miranda and I both felt a great attachment to the idea of having a pair of sisters around the place – so when we discovered we were having a boy, our initial disappointment was shockingly high.
In retrospect it’s almost laughable to think about that, because from the moment he emerged into the world our son has been sweet, gentle, and affectionate beyond measure. Raising two children has turned out to be harder than raising one, sure enough, and the moments of grinding fatigue and baffled witlessness I contend with are undoubtedly more lengthy and abundant than they were during the halcyon days of single child parenting. But it’s grossly understating things to say we’re glad that he’s here. Our beautiful boy. He’s 3.00 years old today, you know.