Of course, no one knows what will happen. This baby could be my last. But if things keep up for us the way they've been going, we could end up on what I consider the VERY large end of the big family spectrum. Not Duggar-worthy, but possibly Stuckwisch- or even Preus-worthy. I turn 29 this week, which means I could still have a lot of good years in me before I dry up. This seems very funny to me, because when we first tossed our pills and told our families that the number of grandkids was now up to God (my husband's in-church-twice-a-year family shrugged; my extremely pious LCMS relations sucked in their breath sharply and haven't let it out yet), we joked that we were going to have seven kids. Impossible, right? Who has seven kids? Well, me, maybe. Or even a lot more.
The "seven kids" thing has stuck so much with some of my confounded family members that I'm regretting ever saying it. I should have told them 25 so that they wouldn't be fretfully counting down my years of earthly purgatory on their fingers every time I have another one, or advising me to pray for twins so that I'll be done sooner. There is no upper limit here, get it?
My sister (CSPP but not married yet, and my only family member breathing freely since our big announcement) has an explanation I like for when people ask her how many kids she wants: she tells them she'll take as many as God gives her. When the frowning begins immediately thereafter, she says that everyone knows you shouldn't give God a minimum (as if he owes every couple at least one or two kids), so she doesn't see why it would be ok to impose a maximum on him either. So: four, seven, twelve--whatev, man. Time will tell.