There are some moments when I am hit with baby envy, when I am seething with jealousy over my pregnant friends getting jiggy with their expanding families. Like Monday, when a friend of mine shared that she’s pregnant. While I was extremely happy for her because she is such a great mother already and she truly wants another child, my crazy thoughtsicles dripped back onto me and the what about me line of questions. What about me? I want a baby too! I want to say, “If you don’t stop making your sister lick 9-volt batteries, I’m going to turn this car around!” What about me?
Then these frowning Mona moments dissipate when I think about the overwhelming cost of adding another one to our brood and how stretched we are with just one child. We have enough money for our bills and entertainment and my occasional raging kegger. I want to start my business this year. I want to pay off some credit cards. I want to go out with my friends and know that my one child is perfectly fine in the care of his father, whom is probably teaching him that Jethro Tull is a band and not one person and also, no matter what Mommy says, the world did not begin in 1983 on the day of her birth.
And then there’s the fear that a second child would be Damien or other forms of babies who were not like awesome Baby Nathan. Nathan was a rockstar baby. He was everything I wanted in an infant: the chubs, chuckle and cheese, not to mention the delicious babystink, which has now been replaced with toddler smell and sometimes full-grown-man-post-Thanksgiving-meat-fest malfeasance.
Even with the ovarian baby pangs, I love having just one and the fleeting idea of being pregnant again frightens me. It is more than enough for me to handle. The truth is, I am just waiting until Nathan is coordinated enough to walk on my back and his toddler heft will work out all the kinks and my budding osteoporosis hump. It’ll also be a sweet day when he finally follows the instruction, “Bring Mommy the remote control.”