About a year ago, my eight-year old ratted me out when he was talking to a fellow third grader, “My mom gets so weird around babies.”
He was right. I had just seen an adorable infant and gotten all mushy in the brain. Involuntarily I said something like, “Oooooh BABY!” and clutched an ovary.
Now that my littlest child is three-years old, IÂ have a dull ache for a baby. As I continue to make his food and shop for his clothes, I can’t help but notice that he’s not so little anymore. My baby is no baby; he can find his own shows on Hulu+, for God’s sake.
Sawyer’s preschool pals are becoming big siblings. The mamas and papas say things about their snugly, colicky newborn and I compare their statements to the rambunctious, full-sentence-speaking child climbing off the couch in front of us. Or they talk about their in-progress pregnancies and I remember my nauseated first trimester or itchy cholestasis. As I attempt to make appropriate conversation, I realize my first-person anecdotes are pretty stale.
I look around at my peers having more babies and I feel like I’m missing out on something. Twinge. At the risk of alienating any of you readers, I so completely don’t want to go there anymore, where there equals pregnancy and further increasing my family, but I still have the pangs. What the hell is that?
After we had our second baby, we had a devil of a time deciding if we wanted more children. But this time, I know we’re done done. So, why is it so hard to move on?
Do you see this face? Of course I want one. Kidding. Not kidding.Â
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