Yesterday afternoon, I spent a little while working on a paint-by-number while the kids watched some TV.
"So?" You ask.
And this morning, I woke up to find that Pebbles had spent the entire night in her own bed, with no 3 am requests for cuddles or a bottle. That's been happening more and more.
"She's two," you remind me. "That's what we expect. And why are you still giving her a bottle at 3 am anyway?" (I don't know. Leave me alone.)
...AND I've noticed lately that there are times in the evening when - get this! - nobody needs me for anything. I could sit down, and it's almost like nobody would notice. Except maybe the cat, who is attracted to warm horizontal surfaces.
I was looking at pictures of Pebbles, and suddenly I'm realizing how much she's grown. That she really isn't a baby any more. She's a toddler, a person in her own right, fully equipped with her own agendas and opinions. We're arriving at that point where it starts to get easier. Or at least less intense.
So I hear myself asking, in a faraway, singsong kind of mental voice...do I want another?
And then I glance nervously at my husband, to see if he heard me thinking that. Because if he did, I think he might actually cry. And then shake me. And then ask a lot of loud questions about my mental health. And I'd be waiting just as anxiously for my answers, because that's just...
(...it's biology, is what it is. It's a gazillion years of reproductive programming.)
...crazy. I've been working six days a week and I'm in no position to change that, I don't ever feel like I spend enough time with the Beloved I already have, I haven't been writing, or baking, or keeping up with any of my friends. So sure, let's have another baby. FABulous idea.
Says the little voice that started it all, "I didn't mean right this minute!"
"Oh, shut up," I tell it. "We are not discussing this." And we're not.
At least not right now.