“Kid, this is it.”

One morning last week I was hustling about — running late as usual — pawing through shoes in my closet, upending the house in search of my cell phone. Martin was handling “cram” mode with the kids: cramming breakfast down their throats, shoving socks and shoes on their feet, and pushing them out the door.

As I bolted up and down the stairs, I caught snippets of conversation — about the baby and whether it would be a boy or a girl. And that’s when I heard Martin sternly say, “No Cayden, this is the last baby. There’s isn’t going to be another one. This is it.”

When I came down the stairs, I couldn’t help but ask the Boy, “Do you want a brother or a sister?”

He grinned and triumphantly displayed his best Nixon-victory pose. “I want two more brothers and two more sisters,” he announced.

As if such an order were normal. Like selecting donuts from the bakery.

Yea, 4 more kids. I’ll get right on that.

Clearly, Cayden has not tapped his jealousy gene.

And he thinks we’re Catholic.

I tried to set him straight, as Martin did. Boy or girl, Hoffa’s it!