25 hours from now, Brett will be undergoing a little procedure we like to call the Big V. And when I’m not resisting the urge to cackle maniacally (mwa ha ha haaaaaa), I’ve got to say I’m feeling a little weirded out. Like, whoa, let’s not be hasty here with these permanent decisions. Which of course is completely ridiculous because, yes, that IS our FOURTH child kicking me in the abdomen. And methinks 4 is probably plenty – hell, if we didn’t live in a red state we would probably be shunned for all of the extra burden we are inflicting on the planet with our childbearing prowess.
But see, the thing is, for the past 6 years, pretty much all I’ve done is be pregnant, or take care of babies, or incessantly pester my husband about having more babies. To take all that off the table, no matter how much I (may) agree that we don’t need more kids is kind of scary. I’m marginal with these big kids, but I’m really good at babies. I like being pregnant (although the three months of vomiting I experienced this time I could live without), I like the excitement of going in to labor and rushing off to the hospital, I like the little tiny diapers, and how hot those tiny little bodies can make you when they fall asleep and you have to hold them still for hours on end. Admittedly, I’ve had very easy babies so far, but I’ve never felt more confident in my abilities, more sure that I was doing what I was meant to do, than I did when I had a baby. And to know that I’ll only ever have that feeling one more time is kind of upsetting.
Even if those little babies I’m so adept at do turn in to big kids I have no idea what to do with.
ps: Needless to say, my husband does not have any of these reservations. Even after I made him read this
pps: mwa ha ha haaaaaaa!