There is a really good chance that I might be crazy. Not in the “eat your own hair” way, but in the way that means we might want more kids.
I promise that not all of my blog posts will be about children. I don’t want to alienate any readers who do not have them, want them, are done with them or just don’t care. I will have plenty of writeups about booze, sex, and what I think everyone should do to make my life easier, but today, it’s about babies.
Since the birth of our second child the day before Thanksgiving in 2013, our life had been crazier than hell. There is something about going from one to two kids that just blows your mind to fucking BITS. Bits I tell you! You think, “sure, double the work for two kids, I can do that.” No. It’s way more work. But then the little one and big one start getting older and things settle down. It does get better. By the time little Franky was approaching his first birthday, we were in a good place. It was hard work, but I didn’t want to drink myself to sleep every night.
Since Franky wasn’t in the super needy baby stage anymore and the boys could play together, we had been thinking that two was a good number of kids for us. I really loved having two boys and Mike was eager to not be chained to our home by diapers and naps. I kept verbalizing how happy and satisfied I was with two kids. I would say it to Mike weekly and I really thought I believed it until one night before bed. I checked Facebook.
It was around Halloween and a friend of mine posted a very cute picture of the pumpkins in their front yard. A bright orange pumpkin for every member of the family. A big one for daddy, one for big brother and a slightly smaller one for little sister and one for mommy…that had a hollowed out middle with a little tiny pumpkin inside. They were expecting and announcing the impending arrival of their third baby. My reproductive area dropped. I was so amazingly jealous that I could hardly put into words how I was feeling.
About a month later we had our boys in for their 3-year and 1-year checkups. While weighing the boys I saw someone walk past with a tiny newborn little baby. My uterus tried to EAT that baby. It took all of my pelvis’s power to control it. The literal jaws of life were trying to get at that baby.
I started to talk to Mike about maybe, just maybe not being done at two kids. He did have doubts. I told him I had 51% of the vote because I carried the baby and was the stay at home parent…he wasn’t buying it. I also told him that I really didn’t NEED him to have a baby. He laughed at me. So, I said, “Okay, listen, Ass-eyes. I am not done. When I picture our family, it does not have only two kids in it. One more, and if you can promise me a girl, I can make it worth your while.” So, he agreed and promised a girl.
When our first was conceived, Mike said it was definitely a boy. He has a girl ball and a boy ball and he had the girl one shut off. When our second was conceived he said he had both balls turned on. He is going to just have the girl ball on this time to make sure we have a girl. This is all scientifically accurate. Look it up.
We have not started trying for our third (and for sure last) one yet. I am a bit apprehensive because some people say that going from two to three kids makes you want to jump into a volcano. Plus, I am currently 35 and each day over that MAGIC age number increases your chances of having a flipper baby or something. I don’t know. I will take that risk though and if the baby has flippers, I will enroll her in swimming classes and hope she makes it to the Olympics.
I don’t want another damn baby in the beginning of a Minnesota winter. Both my boys were born in November. Joey was born 12 weeks early so we were in the hospital for 11 and a half weeks and after that we had to keep that kid under lock and key until the cold/flu and RSV season was over in APRIL. Damn kid birthed himself into plague season weighing only 2 pounds 13 oz. I really need to talk to him about his planning skills. Franky was born right at the start of that recurring polar vortex bullshit. We were all trapped inside for approximately 18 months, the length of a Minnesota winter. By the time it was warm enough to take the kids outside, we all looked like mole people. True story.
I am super determined to keep the next baby a secret for as long as possible. So, don’t ask. I want to be more than ten minutes pregnant when I tell people. But hopefully I will be publishing good news sometime this summer/fall.
And no, I will not name a baby after you.