I thought I was pregnant. And last week I learned I wasn't. While there was some sense of relief, the stronger emotion was disappointment. Yes, disappointment. If I had been pregnant, my children would have been 16 months apart. Which is like running a never-ending marathon with asthma and a broken leg, blindfolded.
But nonetheless, I'm ready. I loved being pregnant. I love raising Oliver. I love children, all the craziness that comes with it, and I want them all over my house. This coming from someone who very seriously considered a childless existence more than once. My husband is incredibly lucky we waited to start our family because I am fairly certain I would have had a suburban full if we were a little more spring-chickeny. But I'd like to be able to get down and up off the floor while playing with my kids. Just seems like a necessary requirement.
Some people thrive with high levels of activity. I'm one of them. Productivity peaks when I take on more than I can handle. Oddly, I enjoy it. I'd rather be ridiculously busy for short periods of time than just chugging along, growing more bored with each easily accomplished task. So it doesn't surprise me that I'm ready. My husband, quite possibly a different story. You may think me insane, but I'm all about efficiency and we're already knee-deep in baby shit so why not knock it out all at once over the next three years?
It's time to get busy! Pun intended.
No comments:
Post a Comment