I’ve been thinking about kids since I was barely old enough to understand what wanting something for the future even meant. Back then, the idea was simple: one child, maybe two, three if life pushed me into a corner. I liked the thought of a small family I could hold close, where no one felt lost in the noise. It felt like the responsible choice, the calm choice. And honestly, it felt like the only version of motherhood I could imagine without overwhelming myself.
Then someone told me that five is the perfect number. I remember brushing it off, but the sentence stayed with me longer than it should have. It didn’t demand anything, it just lingered, warming a part of me I didn’t know was cold. And then, I saw a video of a couple with nineteen kids living on a farmhouse that looked like it had its own weather. Their children are grown now, scattered into their own lives, some with five kids, one with six on the way. More than forty grandkids filling the place with the kind of noise that doesn’t feel chaotic, just alive. Watching them gather, each person carrying a dish, kids running everywhere, stories being passed around like bread… I felt something shift in me. A small ache, but a warm one.
I don’t want nineteen. I don’t even want to pretend I could survive nineteen. But if I’m being honest, really honest, I don’t think I’d want fewer than five. Something about that video cracked open a door I didn’t know existed. I keep picturing myself old and wrinkly, holding the hand of the man I love, surrounded by our kids and their kids, eating good food, laughing at stories we’ve told so many times they barely belong to us anymore. A full table, a loud house, a life that spills over its edges. That’s the dream I didn’t know I had, and now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.
“In my dreams you’re mine, in reality, you’re my dream” – Nizar Qabbani.
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