I don’t know what’s going on with the universe, but wherever I look, cute babies abound. All over the web? Check. At the grocery store? Check. At the mall? Check. I spent over an hour in Macy’s newborn department last weekend, oohing and ahhing about teeny tiny clothes. And even though I intellectually knew that I was shopping for shower gifts for pregnant friends of ours, I swear my traitorous ovaries were rioting. They HURT. Just from looking at baby clothes! Okay, fine, also the nomnomnomalicious wee one who was cooing in the infant carrier in her mother’s arms one rack over might have had something to do with it, but still. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s not some internal coup being staged here. If perhaps the primordial follicles aren’t starting to get themselves organized, maybe start a union, do some picketing about how no one in the big bad brain bothered to ask THEM if they wanted to be out of work.
It’s a little unnerving. I’ve not had the “baby bug” before; we never had time. One day we had the following conversation:
Future Goat Daddy: I read a study that says that women who have been on the pill for a long time may have to wait up to two years for their fertility to be optimal again.
Me: So what are you saying?
FGD: Well, kids are in the ‘two year plan,’ right?
Me: So what are you saying?
FGD: Maybe you ought to think about stopping taking the pill?
Me: Maybe I will.
Before I could decide if I wanted to renew my monthly prescription, the ept told me not to bother weighing the pros and cons of that one. And the next time we talked about whether it was time to have a(nother) baby, it went almost exactly the same way. So here I am, standing on the tracks as the #40 express train is barrelling toward me, and I have two insane uncontrollable amazing kids whom I adore, without ever having experienced that pull to have them. That ache, that emptiness that I’ve heard about/read about/sympathized with friends about. Until…well, until the #40 express started barrelling toward me, actually.
Goat Daddy would go for it in a minute; he’s always wanted more kids. We used to talk about having enough for our own hoops team. (Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I just did. Can you imagine me trying to run a zone defense against my progeny? BWAHAHAHAHA! We can’t even manage a decent man-to-man ’round here.) Turns out, though, that it’s a lot harder than my mom made it look to have five kids. I’m assuming, anyway. Considering we’re having trouble with just two, I’m guessing it doesn’t get easier if you add three more.
ONE more, though….Hmmmm.
Obviously, I’m insane. I am way too busy to be indulging in baby fever. I think it’s time to haul out the old pictures and satisfy myself (oh get your minds out of the gutter) with memories of chubby baby cheeks and arms, and legs, and bellies nom nom nom) instead. Maybe that’ll work. (You: Oh, sure, that will work. Me: Shut up and enjoy the delicious juiciness of my baby girl.)
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