We were waiting to see the doctor for Max's five-year-old well-child check up. For some reason, going to the doctor makes Max ultra-hyper. But in the midst of jumping up and down on the exam table, Max suddenly paused and said, "I wish we had another baby."
My youngest is not yet two, so my man and I haven't really considered whether or not we are going to have another kid. Max's comment took me by surprise. "Why do you want another baby?"
"Because Third is tall now," he explained. Apparently, someone in the family must always be shorter than 33 inches.
"Do you want a sister this time or another brother?" I asked. Personally, my feelings on this subject are a bit mixed. I have always wanted a daughter to help me bear the burden of testosterone overload in this house. However, I have become very accustomed to all males and the thought of a child who wants to wear make-up, be fashionable, and carry around a purse is kind of unappealing. I would not call myself a tomboy, but I have never been interested in all that nonsense.
"I hate sisters," said Max.
I laughed. "You don't even have one. How do you know you hate sisters?"
"Because," he said. "Once I was at somebody's house and there was a sister and she kissed me."
Well, that settles that.
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