The best way I can relate the pure pleasure of having a baby at the same time as having older children is to imagine having a perfect grilled cheese sandwich after a few nights of three-course meals at Nobu, Le Cirque, and Jean-Georges. It’s like watching “I Love Lucy” after a few episodes of “24.” It’s like having a scoop of Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream after being dazzled by the newfangled flavors of Ben & Jerry’s.

Now that Nate, my fifth child, is 3 months old, and I am madly in love with him, I must confess that I was worried about my ability to return to the simple, untainted pleasures of a baby.

I have never been one of those baby people. You know, the ones who just can’t wait to snuggle with any baby, smell the hair, and feel the soft skin. I always found a baby fun to cuddle for a few minutes — but then what? Even when the baby was my own, I was happy to pass him off to loving hands.

When I was pregnant in the fall, I begged my pediatrician, who is also a close friend, to come up with a convincing reason why I could legitimately not breast-feed the baby. “Let me off the hook,” I said, half kidding. But only half. I was dreading the enormous emotional and physical effort that breast-feeding a baby takes during the first few months of life. I finally understood those people who said, “I’d have another kid if you could hand me a 1-year-old.”

“Sorry,” my pediatrician said in response to my plea, “you’re stuck.”

And for the first few weeks, I did feel stuck. But then something amazing happened. I began to look forward to being “stuck” with the baby — and I’m sure that having older children led to this development.

My oldest son is in a phase where he questions everything I ask him to do. “Jacob, can you please close the window?” “Why?” he asks.

“Jacob, can you please tell everyone to get ready for dinner?” “Why?” he asks.

“Jacob, can you please bring me my cell phone from my bag?” I ask. “Why?” he asks.

I want to wring his neck. Do I really need to explain to him why I need my cell phone? Just bring me the phone!

My second son, Josh, spends all his free time with a tennis racket in hand, hitting a ball against the foyer wall to see how many hundreds of times he can hit the ball in a row. God help me, or anyone else for that matter, if his counting happens to be interrupted by the unfortunate need to cross the foyer. If he is approaching a new world record, he growls at me when I come near him.

Kira, his younger sister, will only wear one pair of pants. That’s right. Just one. I have tried — on the Internet and at nearly every single children’s clothing store in Manhattan — to replicate the pair. But no luck. You can imagine what goes on when the pants are too dirty to wear. Thank goodness there are at least three pairs of underpants she is willing to don.

And Talia, nearly 3, has discovered that she can shout. When she doesn’t get her way, she doesn’t have a tantrum — she just raises her voice and shouts her demand as loudly as possible. This behavior has been reinforced by her siblings, who find her shouting funny, and even try to elicit the behavior. “I want watermelon NOW,” she shouts after being told that there is no watermelon. Or, “I want my blankie NOW,” she bellows after being told that it’s in the dryer.

And then, all of a sudden, there is this baby. This innocent, beautiful baby whose whole body curls into a smile the moment I look at him; who coos at me when I talk to him; whose eyes follow me adoringly when I walk across the room. It’s not so bad being stuck with the baby, I think to myself.

And being stuck these days can sometimes be downright delightful. When Kira is writhing on the floor because her pants are dirty, or Jacob slowly ambles across the foyer and Josh misses the ball just as he’s reaching a new record, or Talia’s shouting becomes deafening, and I’m nursing the baby — guess who can’t possibly be available to sort out the problem? Me. However tired I am from being up with the baby in the middle of the night, my poor husband is even more exhausted.

In Afrikaans, which my husband and his South African relatives speak, there is a term to describe a baby born many years after his siblings: laat lammetjie, which literally means “late lamb.” I know plenty of people who have had a laat lammetjie by accident, but only now do I understand those who have chosen to have a laat lammetjie.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing more that I love than spending time with my children — all of them. My greatest thrills these days come from my older children as they are following the election for the first time, discovering the joys of getting lost in a book, and even coming with me for a three-mile jog. I take enormous pleasure in sharing a conspiratorial smile with my oldest as he helps convince his sister that we’ll get more watermelon later. And I know that my children’s determination and need to question authority will serve them well later on.

But for now, I am also, maybe for the first time, enjoying the simplicity of my baby — my grilled cheese, if you will. Nobu will be there for the rest of my life. This simple sandwich might be my last.

sarasberman@aol.com