Lately, I've been wanting another baby. Before we get all worked up, let me just say that I am not pregnant, not planning on getting pregnant, and Chris, upon hearing these whimsical thoughts, promptly drove out to get a vasectomy and salami sandwich. When I said, "Wow, we should have discussed this first," Chris was quick to defend himself. "We HAVE discussed this. You know how much I like salami."
Anyway, at this point, I'm pretty sure our family is complete. When Chris and I talk about having a third baby, we can only come up with negatives. We've always agreed on two children, and the world is seemingly built for families of four. From spaces in a car, restaurant booth, players in most board games, and number of people most Groupons cater to, four seems to be that magic number. And then there are the more reasonable concerns. We have a small house. Another baby would be a huge expense. Being pregnant is miserable. Having a third would restart that clock that Chris is always talking about. I'm not sure where Chris keeps this clock, but I know he's marking time until the kids are in school full time, until we can go to Disneyworld, and until they're basically old enough to get lives of their own. Except for Andy, who is adamant about NEVER getting a life of his own unless it involves marrying his mother and being able to climb a ladder, because ladders are cool.
However, I have a clock, too, and I know exactly where it is. In my ovaries. And even though I've been SO INCREDIBLY SUPER DUPER BLESSED to already have had two perfect, beautiful little boys, the clock in my ovaries ticks and occasionally rings and warns, gently, that I have time, but hey, don't dillydally too much on making that final decision, because the old Hotel Uterus is starting to get a little rundown and has recently dropped from five star accommodations down to four. The continental breakfast is not that great, and the staff is getting surly.
I know I want another baby because even when Andy and Alex are being just god-awful terrible, which is known to happen on occasion, I never think to myself, "Nope, I definitely do not want another." I want a baby even when Andy poops himself at the Barrington Library (Barrington of all places!) and forces me to cause a scene when I drag him and his crappy underpants right out of there. I want another baby when Alex throws all my make-up into the toilet and then bites me in the face when I try to scold him. Sometimes, these two boys are so naughty and infuriating that it's all I can do not to spank them straight into oblivion. Other times, they climb on me and crowd me and breathe all my air and essentially suck my will to live right out of my very soul. Even then, suffocated and all... I kind of want another baby.
What I should probably get is a therapist. Or a bartender.
I wonder if every woman goes through this, if it's a truly biological urge to keep on procreating even when you know that it just makes sense for you to be done. I wonder if mothers of three, four, five, six children... I wonder if they have feelings of wanting yet another little one even though it doesn't make any real practical sense- even though they are already exhausted and crazed and overwhelmed and constantly crabby and eating substandard mystery meats from a dented can because that is simply all of the beefy-type protein they can afford. I wonder if the feeling of needing yet another baby in the house is something that all mothers just accept and live with. What are you supposed to do this very small but vacant space other than tuck it into the overstuffed fullness of a completed, perfect family and keep on trucking?
I feel ridiculous for wanting more when I know I already have so much. This is why I blame biology. Now excuse me; I mentioned salami earlier in this blog entry and have been craving a slice for the last half hour. I shall go and enjoy it now, reminding myself that if I were to get pregnant, that would be one of the many things I couldn't enjoy. Salami. Wine. The sanity of my husband.
Oh, and sushi.
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