One time, about two days after I got home from the hospital after having Little, literally having just been gutted like a fish and a 9 pound baby yanked out of me and having all my innerds being held in by staples and good luck, I was standing at the sink washing baby bottles.
And my husband came up to me while I was working, cradling his hand and pointing out a paper cut he had gotten at the hospital. I was all, “are you serious right now?” and he kept insisting, “you don’t understand! It REALLY hurts!”
And then I pulled down the front of my sweatpants and flashed the gigantic bandage that was keeping my guts from falling on the floor.
And then he goes, “oh.”
I swear. Men.
That’s not relevant to anything, except I think it’s a funny story and I like to remind him about it every now and then.
Plus also I have been thinking about babies since there were 3 heart-stopping days last week when I sat anxiously balled up on the couch with a calendar, thinking rude thoughts about the urologist and trying to figure out if we would be adding a third child to our brood; because of course that’s how an unplanned pregnancy would happen to us – after I am firmly in my forties and we have finally given away every last vestige of baby stuff. And are homeless.
But no, I guess it was just stupid peri-menopause messing with me. Thank goodness. I mean, I love babies and everything, and I did have a few flashes of what a sweet big sister Little would be….but I’m FORTY now. I heard enough sentences that began with “…well, the risks at your age…” when I was pregnant at 35. Jim was equally relieved when I came out of the bathroom on Thursday and flashed him a thumbs-up. He’s significantly older than me, you know (forty-THREE).
What? I said it was a non-story.