I turned 35 this past winter. I live in the southeastern U.S. with my husband, our 3 children, the dog and two gerbils. Our yard is too big to reasonably keep up with. The house undergoing serious remodeling. The minivan, 15 years old. But paid for. Making that car my favorite ever. I try to garden, but always give out when the southern summers try to bake us alive, so all the time and money in my inspired spring always wastes away by mid-July. I stay home. I work my ass off. The children are homeschooled. I hate laundry. Anything that must be ironed goes to the cleaners. I'm afraid of the stuff growing in the carpet of that minivan. I know I could feed at least 3 other children off the french fries under the seats. I struggle to keep up with the bills. And just can't ever seem to really live on the budgets we spend hours crafting. I never wanted to marry, and children were a barely tolerable annoyance that helped pay my way through school when I nannied. The only job I could go to in my jammies. I was studying to be the next Jane Pauley. I had plans. And then I met him. And fell in love. And started dreaming about blue-eyed babies.
We were done after one. We thought he would kill us the first six months. And if he didn't, I was going to. Really really done after two. Especially with that yarfing thing the whole nine months, seven, eight, nine times a day. And during labor. And during the last minute c-section. And after the section. And three? Madness. But I just had to do it one. last. time. And for the last five years, that's what I've thought. Number three is the baby. Even though he's five, he's our baby. Will always be the baby. No more babies. Babies R Not Us. And as of March 15, 2006, we've tossed the birth control with the outrageous idea of having one more. Just one more. I'm thirty five. First gave birth more than 10 years ago. Did it again just a hair over 2 years later, and then the last time, barely shy of 3 years after that. And sent my uterus on hiatus for five years. Until today. I am not the same woman I was during any of those pregancies, and I certainly won't be the same mom. Truth? Each time got sweeter. So this ought to really rock. After the puking is done. Just one more. And that's it. We'll have four, tops.
