I always told The Daver that I wanted a couple of things in life: a monkey butler (proboscis preferred, because obviously but I’d consider a bonobo), unlimited fantasies about Britney Spears’s boobs, and three kids. While I’ve gotten the latter two, after that whole “monkey that ate that woman’s face thing,” I’m thinking the monkey butler is probably out. Unless I can dress him in a Richard Nixon mask and convince Dave that the former president is my butler.
Which could happen. Theoretically. He’s not home much (Dave, not Richard Nixon).
Dave, on the other hand, wanted unlimited access to Gummi Savers, a coffee cup with World’s Best Boss on the side in large letters, and a ridiculously expensive pillow. Notice that there’s no mention of crotch parasites anywhere here. We already had one kid and he wasn’t really all that wowed with the idea of having more.
Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t poke holes in condoms or “forget on purpose” my pills or anything quite so backhanded and sinister (probably because I am not smart enough to do this), but I was the one who pushed to have another.
And later another.
The idea was not to just “get busy” so that I could spend the rest of my days with my “hands full,” but to get ‘er over with so that we could be done having babies early, since we’d gotten a somewhat early start (21 and 23, not 14 or 15). That way, we told ourselves, we could spend our 40’s and 50’s enjoying the relative freedoms we missed out on in lieu of dirty diapers and spit-up stains and all nighters of a completely different ilk.
And here we are.
Free at last.
Now, I make a shitty-ass pregnant person, I’ve never lied about that. I feel like shit, I look like shit, and overall, I just can’t wait to be done gestating. Between that and worrying about additional neural tube defects in subsequent pregnancies (I have been on Folic Acid since Jesus walked on Earth), I’m pretty relieved to be done. But mixed with my sense of relief is a sort-of sense of sadness.
It’s not that I actually WANT more children–I don’t–it’s just that I’m now saying goodbye to a certain chapter in my life, never to go back again. The next time I rub my stomach in public will only be to convince the burrito to go DOWN NOW. And the next time I feel a phantom kick it will only be a burbling fart bubble.
But it’s clear I have issues with saying goodbye to pretty much any and everything. If a restaurant I’ve been to closes its’ doors, I get sort of nostalgic for it WHETHER OR NOT I’ve frequented it. I still occasionally miss nursing school (okay, that is a complete lie). Well, okay, I miss going to school.
I’m sure that from now on when my friends begin to have kids, I’ll always feel the slight tinge of jealousy and nostalgia for those early and exciting times.
And after I’ll inevitably mention this to The Daver, because I am both stupid and lack an internal filter I am certain that he will react by punching himself in the nuts until he’s sure that they’re no longer functional.
I’ll always have my love of Britney’s boobs to keep me warm at night.