Despite his sylvaphilic leanings, ornery temperament, and prodigious ability to wreak dirt and destruction wherever he roams, I'm rather fond of Small Fry. Medium Fry, too. So much so that I'm seized every so often by the desire to have more children.
Aah, you say sagely, the little one is 2 1/2, right? Just at that age where you forget the pain.
Common misconception, my friend. Not only do I have a very distinct memory of "the pain", but have you ever met any mother who didn't have a well-rehearsed armoury of birthing horror stories ready to whip out at the slightest provocation? And as for men? I can't speak for your hubby, but the next time you see DH, casually slip the word "vasectomy" into the conversation and watch him drop faster than a fainting goat at a fireworks display.
The truth is, no one forgets the pain.
So why then the proclivity to procreate? It doesn't hurt that I've produced some seriously high-qual offspring - in fact, a dear friend of mine recently said that, if DH and I were horses, she'd definitely put us in her breeding barn. Quite a compliment! ... I think. Primarily, I chalk it up to feeling a little placentamental every now and then.
Placentamental (pla-SENT-ah-MENT-ul) (adj.): characterized or swayed by the desire to be pregnant and/or bear children; resulting from or coloured by such sentiments, as opposed to reason or rationality; appealing to the sentiments, particularly maternal (or, less frequently, paternal) feelings.
(Heavy on the mental.)