When my parents brought their second child home from the hospital (which happened to be me), they walked up the front steps of our home and found an irrefutably clear statement from my older sister Julie regarding her feelings about being the big sister. Julie pooped in the middle of the front porch. She was only two and a half years old, but had apparently mastered the concept of how to communicate metaphorically. She didn’t use the words “like or “as�, but rather, a giant pile of toddler doodie, to effectively communicate her feelings about sharing her parents. Using the power of fecal sculpture, she said “this is precisely what I think of you people and that ridiculous funny-looking creature you insist on bringing into my house.�

I think she felt a little jilted. I can’t blame her. I didn’t sign up for my place in the family order either. But hey, I am here, and that's a good thing. I think.

When I was young and stupid, as opposed to being grown-up and stupid, I was sure I would end up with a gaggle of kids. As I grew older, reality set in. I had a hard time juggling life before I became a parent. I currently have a hard time juggling life with one child. How on God's green earth am I going to throw another kid into the mix? Who do I think I am anyways? In addition, that whole childbirth thing was really a drag. I came home from the hospital with a third degree tear and crippling baby blues, and said “NEVER AGAIN. One is going to have to be enough.� As my daughter would say: “Aah-dun!� I was glad to be off of that scary ride, thank you very much.

I suspect that any woman who says she loves to be pregnant is lying through her teeth. Either that, or she possesses a gene that I just never got. I am the kind of person who would just as soon skip the pregnancy and childbirth part and start out of the gates with a 6 month-old.

I don’t want to go through it all again. It was exhausting the first time around, and I am 2 years older and more decrepit now.

But there, in the back of my mind, is a niggling that won’t go away. I grew up second in line out of four sisters. I like to say that I got so shortchanged, I even had to share the title of middle child.

However, for every pity-party I threw for having to share resources, money, clothes, and my parents attention (which happened on a near-daily basis), I have thanked heaven about 50 or 60 times for the sisters I have today. By the time I am an old woman, that ratio will likely have quintupled. I would not trade a single one of my sisters for anything. And I mean anything. Not all the tea in China, or all the riches in the world.

Having my three sisters is like having a lifelong membership in a club of mutually insane people. We grew up in the same crazy family, and share the same wacky sense of humor, rife with things like off-color “Little House on the Prairie� innuendos and a fascination with the weird. We are irreverent, off-the-wall, and we find ourselves and each-other endlessly entertaining. We tend to share similar neuroses, though the manifestations vary. They just make me laugh. With them, I always fit in.

My family would have been so different if my parents would have stopped at one. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t be here if they stopped at one. I can’t speak for my older sister Julie, although I hope she agrees that the sacrifices were worth it. Each addition to our family brought another unique child into the mix. I read once that in families with more than one child, every kid essentially grows up in a different family. The family morphs into a new, crazy work of art with the addition of each unique personality. That always made sense to me. I don’t want to know what life would be like without a single one of them.

I am afraid though. I am afraid that I am not a good enough mother to one child. If my time and energy is divided further, how could I possibly keep it together? How can I give my kids their fair share of my time and attention? How can I distribute the love fairly? How could I love another child as much as I love my daughter? Can we afford it? Is it fair to Maggie to have another baby? Is it fair to any of us to risk stretching myself too thin?

I don’t have the answers. I do believe that life takes you where is it is supposed to, when it’s supposed to. It might be time to think about getting back on the scary ride. Perhaps fate will intervene and make the decision for me.

Only time will tell.

If we do have another child, and if Maggie chooses a form of expression similar to that of my older sister Julie, I will explain to her that she can poop on the floor all she wants. It’s okay to feel mad. That sibling is her team-mate for life, and she can make that relationship what she wants. I will tell her that if she is anything like her mother, when she is my age, she will thank her lucky stars for the gift of a sister or brother. Perhaps by then, she will want to save her doodie for other, more important statements.