Yesterday, around 8 a.m., we had a duck on the roof of our shed. A mallard, to be precise, quacking irritatedly at all passers-by. Maeve gave him a good quack-back, and kept circling the shed in order to see him when he waddled to the other side in avoidance. I half expected to find a nest up there when I looked out our second-story window, but nope, he was just an interloper.
This is kind of how my feelings about having more kids are, lately. Most of the time, almost all of the time, I am so happy with just Maeve and grateful that it's just the two of us at home all day. She takes so much of my energy that I am sleeping as well as I did when I was pregnant. And every time she throws herself down on the pavement in rage, I think, gosh, I'm glad I have two hands to deal with this!
And then every so often, my desire for a baby lands, quacking on the roof, wanting to be noticed. So I notice it, look to see if it plans on building a nest, then notice later that it's completely gone, without a trace. It is most certainly an anomaly, not my usual state of emotion or thought. It quacks pretty loudly, I'll give you that, but so far, no nest.
It's a good thing, though, really. If that duck wanted to nest, there would be lots of complications. Financial, spatial, emotional, sleep-related complications. So I keep an eye on the duck, but I'm not exactly setting out food or anything.
Was this a weird metaphor? It made sense to me, but it is pretty well before 6 am, and my thoughts are not always clear at this hour.
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