30 Ways I Talk Myself Out of a Third Child

My desire to have a third child flip-flops every day. It’s like watching The Bachelor, where he can’t decide between two potential mates, picks one, then changes his mind and proposes to the other one, only to break off the engagement two months later, but then they hook up during a weekend in Cabo…

I’m one of three children; my husband is one of five. While we both openly admit that a trifecta sounds lovely, there are still too many reasons why going for a third child gives us pause.

Here are 30 ways I talk myself out of a third child:

If Nickelodeon ever resurrected Family Double Dare, one of my kids would have to sit out in the studio audience.
My husband and I would shift from man-to-man to zone defense. And since I know nothing about sports, I assume that means I will be tackled constantly.
Three children means someone will always be riding alone on the scary rollercoaster.
We’d have to get a bigger car, and would lose all the street cred we get by driving around in our super-cool Honda Civic.
We would increase the likelihood by 33% that one of our children would grow up to be a jerkface.
IKEA doesn’t make three-child bunk beds.
The addition of a third child would leave no room empty for someone to storm off into during a tantrum.
I was hoping that by child #3, medical science would have advanced to the point where childbirth was no longer painful. That does not seem to be the case.
I will officially have spent more on diapers than on the down payment for my home.
I’d have to pretend to give a sh*t about Tummy Time again.
When we stay in hotels, one kid will always get stuck having to sleep in the bathtub.
It will now be a 3:2 vote as to whether to watch Umi Zoomi or Game of Thrones.
I’d have to start buying chicken nuggets in bulk.
I’d have to stop eating chicken nuggets straight from the freezer right before bed.
There will be no chance in hell that I will ever get my children’s names right on the first try.
Parent-teacher conferences will resemble speed dating.
The last time my husband and I discussed baby names, we argued over whether to name our kid “Liam” or “Thor.”
With two kids, we’re already used to getting very little sleep. Add a third child, and I’d have to reacquaint myself with the magic that is zero sleep.
By the time my eldest’s hand-me-downs reach the third child, they will be tattered rags that are less “trendy Urban Outfitters” and more “Les Miserables street urchin.”
Someone will always be stuck on the sidelines during Hungry Hungry Hippos tournaments.
Our Friendly’s check will triple (mostly because of all the ice cream I’d eat to compensate for the zero-sleep thing)
Once we cross over the three-child threshold, our parents will coincidentally be “traveling” whenever we need a babysitter.
On any given evening, I’d have to decide whether to go to Kid #1’s ballet recital, Kid #2’s soccer game, or Kid #3’s baptism.
It will be another four years before I can remove the Elmo potty insert from my toilet seat.
I’m going to have to buy a stroller with stadium seating.
It would take too long to sign all those names to holiday cards, so I’d refer to my kids as “et al.”
My “advanced maternal” ovaries are currently shriveling into fallopian raisins.
By the time my third child is a teenager, no one would ever mistake us for sisters.
If I won a free family pass to Disney World, it would only come with four tickets, and I’d have to leave the lucky third kid with grandma.
I’d have to buy another house to store all the clothes, toys, and books I don’t want to get rid of, just in case we get drunk one night and decide “hey, four kids sounds swell!”