When I was young I planned on having twelve children. I made lists of names in every possible boy/girl combination. I made a list of Irish names and a list of Italian names in case I married a man of those ethnicities. Turns out I married a man of Scottish descent and the list of acceptable, authentic Scottish names is a bit slim. Argyle, Kermichil, Grizela... though Kevin still wants an Argyle. (I am a good wife, but I'm not that good.)
In my twenties I thought five children would be a good number. Still a decently large family, but we could fit in a mini van. (Little did I know how cramped a minivan can be with tall, long legged teens.) In my thirties, I was back to wanting that dozen. God gave me a bakers dozen but decided to bring five of them back to Him early before we got a chance to meet them. (Agatha, Peter, Augustine, Jude and Perpetua.) He gave me eight on earth to raise. I would prefer to have them all, but eight is hardly stingy. I am assuming at nearly 45 years old, that I am done here. But I have assumed that before. Then there was Lydia.
Every child is a miraculous blessing. Even more so in your 40's. I've had two in my 40's, so I kind of feel that I've had my fair share and can't expect God to keep sending 'just one more'. And eight certainly keeps me busier than I ever imagined. And I have already whined plenty to anyone who would listen and even to some who didn't want to hear about it, that I was hoping for more. And really, we are getting quite old.
Still... my grandmother gave birth to my dear mother at the age of 47. Still... I would love to visit a child at college with a baby on my hip. Still... wouldn't it be incredible if God sent just one more?