I’ve been fantasizing lately.

Dangerous fantasies.

No not those kind of fantasies. Perv much?

No, I’ve been fantasizing about babies.

OhmygodIknowright?! Seriously, Uterus, shut up. You cause enough trouble all by yourself. You don’t need to start creating minions.

But, my uterus, being the internal organ that she is, doesn’t listen.

And lately, she’s been getting antsy for some fetus action. I don’t get it. I don’t want to be responsible for another person. I have enough trouble keeping track of myself, my grown man of a husband, and our four furkids. Adding a newborn to the mix is just asking, nay pleading for disaster.

But my uterus, working off of some engrained biological clock, doesn’t listen.

Dave’s brother Ben got married this weekend. This piece of information has very little to do with my desire to procreate. Well, just a teeny bit. See, we spent the whole weekend surrounded by Dave’s family, and all I could think, the only thought that kept cliff diving around my psyche, was about how awesome it would be to announce to these people that Dave and I had made a people. About their reactions. Seeing the look on Dave’s Mom’s face when I told her she would be a grandmother. Dave’s Dad’s tears when we tall him he’s going to be a grandfather. Dave’s Dad’s wife’s tears when she sees Dave’s Dad’s tears. Melissa’s face. Melissa gets intensely excited about major life changing events. It’s awesome to watch. And Papa, Dave’s grandfather… okay, maybe telling him we’re pregnant wouldn’t get much of a reaction, but handing him that baby CERTAINLY would. He would explode from the pride. He’d be an AWESOME great-grandfather.

We live so far away from our families. And every other day of the week, it’s not a huge deal. Eh, we get lonely, but it passes. But this little fantasy of getting to tell everyone in person, as a group, that the group would grow by one before the end of a year,  has made me realize that time together is important, schmaltzy as that sounds. Jesus… that’s like Lifetime grade crap right there. Unfortunately, it’s true. I mean, not unfortunate about the true part, but unfortunate about the schmaltz. And if I don’t stop right now, I’m going to talk myself into a circle.

I guess the point of this story is my uterus is writing checks that my subconscious can’t cash… or is that the other way around? My uterus is conspiring with my subconscious to make me baby crazy. There, that’s right.

I’m not ready for the responsibility of another human life. I like being young, married, and unencumbered. I like having Dave all to myself.

But my uterus, being the selfish bitch that she is, doesn’t listen.


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