Guys, it finally hit me. The bug. The fever. The plague (as my friend so affectionately named it). I thought I was strong; I thought I'd be different... but nope. After almost a year and a half of marriage, visions of nurseries and plump baby buns are dancing in my head.
This is a problem. I promised Grahm when we bought the house that we wouldn't have a little Roach baby for two years. So I've got to nip this is in the uterus, my friends. And fast. Maybe I should slap on some maternity pants and hook my skeeter bites up to a breast pump to get a real mental picture of motherhood. Maybe I should offer to babysit octuplets. Maybe I should get a puppy.
Or maybe I should make a list of reasons that babies aren't always ... easy breezy lemon squeezy.
1. Liquids of all kinds: Poop, milk, and puke -- oh my! I'm not ready for poop to be the topic of everyday conversation. How much did she go today? What color? Texture? Just... no. I'm also not fully prepared to sniff another human's rumposaurus like it's totally normal. Then I have to actually handle the party in my baby's diaper. Like every day. Ghastly amounts of it. No amount of wipes, cloth diapers, or Huggie Supremes will ever make that an acceptable situation.
And then there's the whole thing with my chest becoming the "land flowing with milk and honey." Mooo, Jena, moooo. Yes, it's beautiful... it's just so... awkward. What if I have TWINS? Mooo.
2. Lack of sleep: Sleep is really the only thing I'm talented at. Give me a warm blanket and a couple of hours, and take some notes on how a real woman naps. Take that away from me and what will I be? A wrinkley, crab-apple who opts for fifteen more minutes of sleep than taking a shower (wait, that's true right now).
3. Babysitters: As if the little rodent wasn't sucking your wallet dry already, they even cost you money to spend some time away from them! Spontaneous trip? Movie date? Gotta pay extra for some kid to watch the kiddos, and then you'll spend the whole time worrying that the babysitter is making out with a boy on your sofa while little Jimmy plays with the kitchen knives. Good thing we've got in-laws in town. (Yes, Papa Roach I'm volunteering you. Hope you didn't make plans for two years from now.)
4. Stretch marks: Now, I'm not saying this busted can of biscuits is looking really good these days. But at least under all the flub, I know there ain't no permanent scars. Wounds of love, I know. I'll carry those with pride one of these days, but until then... maybe I should just enjoy bikini season and not being compared to a used rubber tire?
5. Did I mention poop yet?
This list didn't work. I still want one... even if I'll forever be labeled a butt-sniffing, stretch-marked, hygiene-questionable cow who hasn't had sleep or a shower in months. It'll all be worth it for a little boy who looks just like his sweet daddy did.
Someday, guys. Someday.
Until then, my grubby hands will avoid holding chubby chunks of love.