Been hearing a sound lately - a shocking sound. It's the incessant ticking of my internal, must-have-more-babies, time-is-running-out-and-you're-still-fertile clock. Why is that shocking, exactly? After all, I'm 35. Smack dab in the middle of nature making a run on my ovaries. Why shouldn't I be feeling that urge to keep procreating?
Why? Because I'm done. We're done. DONE.
See, we always wanted two kids. We live in New York city, land of ridiculously expensive apartments and even more ridiculous school tuition. And I never want to drive a mini van. And I believe in putting back what you take out - I'm not trying to repopulate any tribes. And my life is holding steady to a perfect, precarious balance. And I got lucky with a two-for-one-deal - I don't HAVE to be pregnant again. (And let's not forget how particularly awful my pregnancy was).
So I am DONE.
It doesn't even need to be said that I love my children. There is nothing in my life that even compares to being a mother - or that ever will. I don't even subscribe to that 'I don't want anything to distract me from the kids I have today' because not a single part of me doubts that I - that we - have more than enough to go around. It's just, I am DONE. And I'm GOOD. And I know, I said that already.
Maybe I'm repeating myself because, apparantly, someon needs to aprise my hormones of that fact. Or my ovaries. Or milk ducts. Or whichever weapon Nature deploys when I'm in the presence of one of those cute, squishy, sweet-smelling, wanna-squeeze-'em-even-if-they're-hollering, bundles of someone else's joy.
What the ...?!?!? There is absolutely no sane, reasonable explanation for me to be thinking "I can do this, it wasn't so hard, we could totally do this again" or, even more tellingly, "awwww..."
Didn't I do that already? Didn't I already meet my Darwinian obligations? Isn't there someone else who should be hit with this onslaught? Some youngish, financially stable couple that just can't decide if they're ready? It's really quite upsetting, to be honest. I really thought it would go away. And the realization it hasn't is worse than acne in your thirties.
Because I'm done. Truly, really, truly, done.