Wasn't it just last Wednesday that I wrote that morose, depressed post about how much my life sucks and I hate being at home?
It's funny how when my kids behave themselves for an entire day, I'm thinking, "Hmm, should I have another one?" The subject came up the other morning at breakfast. My husband and I were enjoying a (rare) quiet moment because the girls spent the night at his mom's house. They have a sleepover with her every Friday. Yes, I know. I have absolutely NO right to ever bitch about any of this mothering business because I get an overnight break once a week. I'm an ungrateful wench. I know this. By the way, when was the last time you heard that ever-popular, derogatory term "wench" that belonged exclusively to the 80's? By the way I f'ing love the 80's.
Okay, so, back to the subject of a third child. Whoa. When I typed that phrase, "third child", a chill ran down my spine. And not in a good way. In a "Halloween"-type horror movie way. You know, like during the part right before Annie got strangled to death by Michael Myers while she was innocently attempting to go pick up her boyfriend so they could knock boots all night long?
My husband disclosed to me, during this quiet moment, that he has secretly been longing for a boy. Mind you, he has long publicly held that he is perfectly happy with two girls. But I suspected otherwise. He told me he has been listening to "the guys" at work talk about all the manly-man stuff they do with their boys. And now he may want a little manly-man of his own.
GTFO, brother. That was my first gut-response. Then I thought, "Awwww, a baby!" Then I thought, "Even less sleep than I am getting now. Shitty idea."
Seriously, though, sometimes I want to do it again. But, why? I bitch incessantly about how hard it is right now, with two. Then again, I truly enjoyed being fat and pregnant both times. Well, maybe I just liked going balls-to-the-wall and eating everything in sight. I certainly enjoyed that. But it was more. I adored my soft belly, even though it eventually was marred by stretch marks which exist, in all their shining glory, still today. In spite of the gallons of cocoa butter I rubbed on my stomach. The warm feeling I would get when I felt a kick.
One thing I know. Enjoying pregnancy is not reason enough to have another baby. My girls are just getting to the point where they are semi-manageable. I want to go back to work as soon as possible. Having a baby would set me back about, well, five more years. So why would I even let this insane notion invade my mind?
Well, because I'm a nutcase, obviously. Ever since I found my first gray hair (and the second, third and fourth), I have been feeling like my mortality is imminent. I know, it's not logical. I'm 32. Long life ahead, right?
Problem is, I can't believe that T is already going to be five. G is already three. I feel as though time is just rocketing past me and, if I blink, they are both going to be gone. Grown up and living with ungrateful husbands and children of their own.
So it could be said that my thought process is as follows: if I keep popping out kids, I can stop time. I will always remain young because mothers are young, right? Life is so fleeting, shouldn't I have as many children as I want and have as much fun with them as I can because, once you're dead, that's it?
See, I told you I was a nutcase.
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2 comments:
It's not nuts, it's kind of normal.
What's nuts is being in your late forties and wanting another one.
That's nuts.
My 2 dearest friends are sisters who's dad really wanted boys. They were called Jake's Boys growing up. They can fish better than most men I know.
If you're dying to have a 3rd, get no sleep and start the diaper saga again. I'd say go for it. Babies are so sweet and cuddly. Then they start using complete sentences like "I want my daddy!!" and it ruins the cuteness.
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