I used to get bad fevers. Baby Fevers. You know, where you want a baby so bad you can taste it? But then I got cured of my fevers. Want to know how I knew I was all better? There’s a short version and a long one. I’ll tell you the long one because you’re already here.
When I was 25 years old and newly married, I had the fever. No, not SARS. That was years later. What I had was baby-fever. And I had it bad. Everywhere I looked there were pregnant ladies. Big bellies, small bellies, huge unwieldy very uncomfortable-looking bellies. Bellies toting toddlers, and bellies toddling while toting.
The pregnant women looked fertile. Fecund. Glorious. I was jealous. I wanted a belly. I wanted to be pregnant. I guess I wanted a baby too, but just like planning a wedding not a marriage, I was planning a pregnancy, not necessarily motherhood. I just knew I’d LOVE being pregnant.
I got my way. Truth be told, we were newlyweds so we were still at the point in our marriage where I got my way and when I didn’t, tears did the rest. This time, a promise of sex every other night did the work for me.
Aside from violent vomiting and constant horrific nausea my pregnancy went well. After a pretty easy childbirth (sorry, no stitches. I’m like the female version of Stretch Johnson) I had the baby. She was cute even though she cried so much they gave me a single room. I did enjoy the attention, though. I got so many flowers you’d have thought I was Celine Dion.
Our daughter was pretty easy to take care of once she stopped screaming for 12-15 hours at a time.
Apparently we easily forget what it’s like to waddle-not-walk, have to pee every 26 seconds, and never sleep. Because I got the FEVER again.
Twelve months later, after seeing non-stop visions of preggos dancing in my head and at every mall within a 20 km radius, I was knocked up again.
Yes, it was on purpose. Yes, I meant for my kids to be this close together. Yes, I got pregnant on her first birthday (Mama knows how to celebrate!).
You know the drill: Barfing, nausea, fatigue, violent cravings for Pad Thai. Three-hour childbirth. No stitches. Don’t hate me. Just call me the BabyMaker.
This guy was sweet like Cherry Pie. An easy baby, but man-oh-man, a bit needy. He wanted attention and all kinds of Mama Love. My girl was all “I can do it by mahself’. And he was all, “Mommy. Help me I’m a baby.”
No time for Baby Fever. I was mothering toddlers. But after 2 1/2 years I developed delusions, which of course spiked my hormonal temperatures. I had a fever brought on by Halloween, I guess. Something about mini-Snickers bars?
Well, anyways, after numero tres came along, he turned out to be the most natural form of Birth Control. A real fever killer. In fact, his antics cured the Baby Fever forever more.
I was done.
Here’s how I know for sure:
I Don’t have Belly Envy: While I still find pregnant bellies beautiful, I don’t want one. When I see a pregnant woman my thoughts include:
-She’s so lucky she can eat whatever she wants
-They didn’t have cute dresses like that when I was pregnant
-Too bad she can’t fit into her regular jeans
-It’ll be 2025 before she sleeps in, sucker
Bye Bye hormones: When I see Adam Levine sing and dance, it’s not my ovaries that ache. Even if he asked, I wouldn’t have his baby (but I would be willing to help him practice….)
I’m done with hands-on mothering. I like having my time back. When an available baby is smiling and playful I am happy to hold it. But when it pukes, poops, cries, or otherwise acts like they need something, I hand it back. Sorry, dues are paid in full. Lifetime membership.
I don’t even have the urge to lie. When someone asks if my nephew is my baby I yell, loud as I can, GOD NO! while silently congratulating myself that I look young enough that he might be.
Been there, done that. I have no biological compulsion to feed your baby, baby your baby, change it’s poop, babysit it, read it stories, or talk baby talk. I don’t want to listen to screaming or the same phrase over and over again, go to the park, play fake kitchen, or step on legos. I don’t want to watch smiling fools wearing primary colours sing like they’re on an acid trip, attempt to fold your stroller or pack your diaper bag. I definitely don’t want to smell your kid’s butt or be touched by sticky fingers.
I’m not a meanie. I love your baby. She’s real cute. I just don’t want one. By the way, Isn’t it her nap time? Because it’s mine. Sucker.
This is the third in my story of Mothers’ Intuition and how my lovely and often inappropriate family came to be. If you want to read about how I got pregnant the first time, click here. To understand my delusions of motherhood, click here.
To celebrate this last post, I’m giving away a great prize. Win a $50 Visa Gift card PLUS $25 in Schick products. Enter below.
I am part of the Schick Intuition #momsintuition blogger program I was compensated for writing this post. All experiences are my own.