Jeremy sends me an article from the Times that suggests that the world-wide dropoff in fertility rates has more to do with a lack of housing, rather than other variables such as women’s employment or lifestyle issues.

But at a time when no cocktail conversation is complete without a discussion of real estate, the boomlet raises a question that has long interested social scientists: What is the relationship between fertility and real estate?

In the wide-open mortgage climate early this decade, creative loan products allowed more people than ever to buy homes, often a precursor to having children. In 2006, the babies arrived — a reminder, perhaps, that if you build it, they will toddle.

I would describe this as the Goldfish argument. The bigger the tank, the bigger the fish.

I have to admit that when we moved to the suburbs, we did toss around the idea of making another. When we lived in a cramped apartment with the four floor walk up, it was physically impossible to lug another kid up the stairs. Also, there was no place to store the kid in the apartment. Maybe if the third kid slept in the bathtub, we could have managed. The lack of kid storage space and the stairs hike capped our kid quotient to two, and there was really no discussion about it. 

We moved to the suburbs with a novelties like a driveway and a dishwasher. Suddenly, spawning again was an option. Steve and I tossed the idea around for a while. But the negatives outweighed the positives. I started calculating how old I would be at my kid’s high school graduation and at the kid’s wedding. I hadn’t had a teaching job in a couple of years and was antsy to get out of the house. Ian was also going through a really tough time. He was two and he screamed all day in frustration, because he couldn’t talk. I was afraid. I’m not sure if we made the right decision or not, but that ship has sailed.

So, I’m not sure I buy the goldfish argument. In our case, making more babies involved a series of variables — space being one.

Jeremy asks what I tell people who ask if we’re going to have more kids.

I haven’t gotten that question in a while. I choose to believe that it is because my youngest is now five, and people assume that we’re done. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I look old, old, old. My usual answer, a few years back, was to simulate self-embowelment with a sword.