Monday, May 29, 2006

Number One Symptom That You Are Insane

It's official.

I'm insane.

You might have known this before, but unlike before, I can prove it.

You see, my son is turning nine months old on Friday. Nine months. The amount of time I spent carrying him in my womb. And the amount of time I've spent carrying him around in my arms and answering his ear-shattering screams.

And for some reason, during the past month, a throbbing has started inside my head. Not the kind that makes you think that maybe it's a tumor. The kind that makes people look at you wide-eyed when you explain what this throbbing is.

I want another baby.

There, I've said it.

I've always known that I wanted my kids to be fairly close in age. But then Baby Boy came along and I began to think that only having one kid was the way to go.

And then I learned to like motherhood. I learned that I didn't need sleep and that I could wipe wet snot with my bare hand without giving it a second thought or keep my mouth open for an hour as ten grubby little fingers explore every corner of my tongue. I've learned that if you have a screaming baby in the backseat and you need to get home, turning up the radio really loud and singing along at the top of your lungs drowns out cries really well. I've learned that feeding melted ice cream to your eight-month old baby won't kill it and that breaking your organic and healthy food only nazi regime makes you feel good. I've also learned that if the dogs lick the babies hands and I don't wipe them off with Purrell immediately, said baby won't die of E. Coli, salmonella or doggie breath disorder.

Since I've mellowed so much, I feel at this point that I am enough of an expert on this whole baby matter that I can push my luck with a second one. Forget the fact that my son has begun exhibiting symptoms of temper tantrums. Forget the fact that my solution so far has been to roll my eyes, laugh at him and walk away, guaranteeing him a lifetime of therapy and feelings of being unloved.

The point is that never in my life have I felt more comfortable in my own skin. I have stretchmarks on my hips, cellulite in my thighs, and yet for the first time in four years, I'm wearing a bikini. Partly because I feel like people are admiring the baby on said cellulite-and-stretch mark laden hip, rather than looking at me, partly because it just doesn't matter anymore. I'm not a supermodel. I'm a mom. And that means I get to eat ding dongs and get laugh lines.

And so now I'm looking at new insurance plans to make sure that we can afford to do this again. Because I'm ready. I hope the world is.

Love,

Catwoman.

1 comment:

random_mommy said...

and what does baby boy have to say in this matter???