And all I could think, all I could feel was, "Thank God that you are not mine. Thank God that I don't have to do this all over again."
At this very time last year, I lamented over the fact that I would have to start fertility medication in order to have another baby. I cried every month when my body would once again remind me that I had failed to conceive.
But I don't want another baby. Not now, probably not ever.
You may be wondering what has changed and my only answer to that is me. I have changed. I have other priorities, other dreams, other plans.
And none of those include having my nipples gnawed off by a teething infant. Or gaining more weight that I would have to work my 36 year old ass off to get rid of. Or giving up wearing heels for another year because I am incapable of carrying a wriggling baby mass while wearing heels. Or spending the rest of my life in unflattering attire because even after the age of 2, kids still have a way of ruining your clothes (like trying to clean up a nail polish spill with my bathing suit and then stuffing said suit back into my underwear drawer so that when I find the mess it has now become a bathing suit/underwear/sock conglomeration covered in GLITTER! nail polish).
|Yay for heels!|
I don't want to drive a car that will hold more than myself and my child and the nine million things that must accompany us on every outing. If there are two children, where do you even put that much stuff? I don't want to re-baby proof a house that just became un-baby proofed. I don't want to waste hours of my time watching reruns on Netflix while I hold a child that will not sleep anywhere but my arms.
Maybe I am selfish, maybe I am just going through something, maybe I am just a bitch. Whatever it might be, I know that should a tornado or a fire or the Zombie Apocalypse strike our tiny home, I can rescue one child - and I don't have to pick which one.
For right now, I am just thankful for my one.