My wife wants to have another child. Or, rather, she thinks she does.

Children are wonderful … sometimes. Other times they’re sloppy, noisy, maniacal fascists who don’t listen and make no sense. It’s like they’re not human. At least not human in the adult sense. Because adults aren’t that wonderful, nor are they that annoying.

Well, that’s not exactly true. But no one from the cast of Jersey Shore sleeps at my house.

But back to adding a child – here’s the current roster. I have a 21-year-old stepdaughter from my first marriage, attending a Northern California college far enough away that when she calls me and asks if I can somehow, magically, procure money and a truck in 20-hours, notice to buy her used furniture currently in Berkeley, Fremont and/or Livermore, then drive it to her, I can simply say, “Sorry honey, I would, but I don’t have that much vacation time accrued.”

I also have an 8-year-old daughter who spends most of her time in Sacramento with her mother, my ex-wife. She’s probably the brightest 8-year-old I’ve ever met. Or, at least, the brightest one I’ve ever produced. Which also means she’s also the most challenging 8-year-old I’ve ever produced because, quite simply, she thinks she’s a star and there’s nothing she can’t do and telling her otherwise makes her immediately want nothing more in the world than to do what you said she shouldn’t try.

Then comes my 7-year-old stepdaughter from my current (and last – I promise) marriage. She’s easily the most interesting, off-the-wall, curious and out-and-out fascinating child I’ve ever met. She says things that, I’m convinced, come from suppressed memories implanted in another life when she was a medicine woman on the planet Zertwon.

Then comes the 20-month-old little girl. This one my wife and I made together, so we don’t have to worry about who yells at her the most. And, as she doesn’t speak much English yet, she’s also known as the “good” child. Which we both know won’t last for long. Like all of her sisters, she has her own set of wonderful characteristics that, while wonderful and all, also tend to drain a father’s energy. Like her propensity to deliver the dog’s food to him, piece by piece, no matter where he is. Then, parched from the effort, she buries her face in his bowl and drinks.

So my wife wants to add another one to the tribe, using bait like, “Don’t you want to have a boy?” To which I say “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” The chances of me making a boy for my all-female-but-the-dog-and-me family are about as good as someone stranding me in the wilderness and forcing me to survive a week stalking and killing my own pepperoni.

The first few times the topic came up last year, I set some firm conditions. Sure, we could have another one, I said, if my wife could work closer to home, we both made more money (I’m a journalist, so I knew this wasn’t going to happen), and we got a bigger house. Preferably one big enough where sound dies before it gets very far.

Oh – and I told her she had to guarantee me a boy.

She seemed to go along with that for a while –until last week, when she simply told me she likes her job, we could figure out the money problem and, until we sell our house, we could make the current space restrictions work. Oh, and she said I like girls and won’t care when it comes right down to it.

Wha … huh? Anyone get the license number of the bus that just flattened me?

The good news is I’m married to a non-manipulative, honest woman who would never make such a big decision unilaterally. The bad news is I love kids. I have a feeling I’m going to lose this one – but I’ll put up a spirited fight just so she doesn’t get too comfortable.