No one has
But I am thankful for my baby. Number eight. The youngest of the five boys whom my husband and I call our "Catholic babies" -- the five who wouldn't exist if God had not changed our hearts.
My baby, born when I was weeks shy of 43.
Some cynics say, "I'd rather be 40 than pregnant!"
I say, "I'd rather be 40 (or 42!) and pregnant, if it means I get a treasure like my baby."
Weeks after I had him, I started writing a blog. Yup, my baby and my blog are the same age.
My baby is cuter than my blog.
|Yes, he ate a fudge-sicle. Or three.|
My baby's innocence and goodness (he is the sweetest, kindest, most helpful baby in the world) make my heart ache.
Okay, he's not technically a baby anymore. But darn it all, he's my baby.
And he's got a couple of other "mommies" who fawn all over him.
And now he has a brother-in-law who is more like another big brother -- in addition to the five other big brothers who cannot stop vying for his affection.
Oh, the poor neglected child! So lost in the shuffle! How he suffers!
But he's always got another Mommy looking over his shoulder:
He's her baby, too.
So I think he'll be okay.