Stop, hold on– before you get out the ticker-tape and start knitting our hypothetical spawn a blanket for its throne of awesomeitude that's all it is, thinking. No, really. Come onnnn, I'm serious. FINE, if you don't believe me I'll just close the comments! NO BABY NO BABY.
Regardless, I feel compelled to admit that I do, in fact, think of it quite often, that hypothetical 'nother baby. I seem to be surrounded by friends in the process of adding new smooshy members to their families. What's with that, PEOPLE, are you not aware the effect that has on rest of us? Of course you're not, because the thoughts in my brain have nothing to do with yours except for the mind control and the herd mentality. I'm genuinely happy for them, and pleased to live vicariously through their ever-expanding waistlines that aren't my own. However it does bring certain thoughts to the forefront and that sort of thinking makes my brain hurt. Normally I like to drift through my days in a fuzzy wasteland where scenes from Adventure Time gently float past. I call it "meditation." Algebraic!
I stare into the darkness at night (as opposed to when I stare into it during the day) and I imagine Jon's hand resting on the full curve of my belly, swelling with life. Doesn't that sound pleasant? It does! I had a dreamily uneventful first pregnancy which makes it seem all the more reasonable to treat it to an encore. What higher praise is there for a well-oiled machine than repeated use? Awwww, sit. Siiiiiit. Siiiiiiit. Good uterus. You get a
The birth junkie in me would be admittedly sad to only tag into the ring for one epic match. But that's not enough reason for me. There are too many other mitigating elements to factor in, from sibling relationships to money; from health to really how the crap do you pay your babysitter double. Frankly I was never very good a physics, passing at best, and the equation is incomprehensibly out of my league.
Brain 'splode PEW!
Reality is neither one of us are feeling that magnetic compulsion towards a baby, the squalling screaming calling termed teh baby feverz. I could pretend to have it, just so I could have a sick day and roll around on the couch with my yarn, but it wouldn't be genuine and that's not the kind of thing you can really fake for long, nor should you probably pretend to want to make life-changing family decisions. That sounds extremely unwise.
I could be persuaded if someone talked very fast and provided donuts during their presentation, but I have no one stepping up to the podium. Jon and I have nearly completely identical thoughts on the issue except that I think about it a great deal more often, probably a proportionally reasonable amount for the possessor of the vagina and all the adorable pregnant friends. Or a completely unreasonable amount. I'm not really sure but I would guess the latter.
It sounds divine to be on the receiving side of that persuasion though. Men, if you ever want to really compliment your wives in their babymaking years just tell them they're doing such a great job you want to do it allllll again. Romance novel swoon. (I would be pleased as punch to sit on my hands and patiently wait for that presentation to occur. I may have to be as patient as never, as that is totally not Jon's style. Would never be an okay time? Maybe it would. I'll bring the dry erase markers.)
In the end things are much too pleasantly awesome as they stand to dick around with the status quo.
(Right? Right. Right. RIGHT. Whew. Glad we cleared that up.)
There's really no way to get out of this one without it looking suspicious, is there?
Stop looking at me like that.