I am hit by the incredibly obvious revelation for the day. If we're really stopping at two kids, then we're done with having babies. That phase of our lives, which was so all-consuming, so entirely absorbing, so eternally life-changing, that required special furniture, special adaptation of everything, right down to where I keep things in in the kitchen (nothing dangerous, spillable, or breakable low down), is behind us.
You put the high chair in the basement and you think, "Hooray, more space in the kitchen." But you don't think "That's it. Those years are over, and everyone was right, they were so short. And who am I now?" until later. Like, until today.
Looking around the cafe in IKEA, I start to say to myself that I really want another baby. Then I catch myself in time. "I really ... must be ovulating." Yup.