Just over a year ago, I gave my hubby the dumbest back-firing ultimatum…knock me up by my thirty-fifth birthday, or get those nads nipped. Neither occurred. On the contrary, my demand only provided a year of tears (me) and defensive arguments (him.) You see, our first and only child is six; he should have had a sibling long ago. That had been the plan, but somewhere along the way, my man decided one was enough. As the oldest of two children, he does not get the desperate desire an only child (me) has for a sibling (the four-year-old in me still clings to the hope that my mother, post-hysterectomy, will finally decide to give me a little brother.) Having yet to bury a parent, he just does not understand how lonely it is to stand by a father’s grave and know no one else in this world understands what it was like to be my parents’ child. Knowing someday, our son will bury us and stand alone by our graves breaks my heart. Okay, that and I’m dying to be pregnant and have yet another snotty, whining nose to wipe.
Not a late period goes by that I am not down on my knees bargaining with the holy guy that this month will be the month that in a moment of overwhelming passion, hubby didn’t pull out quite fast enough, and I will finally be the mom of two. Please God, Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Zeus, someone, anyone bless my hubby with super sperm whose sole mission is to create a mini-me.
P.S. Mr. President, I voted for you. I wish you the greatest success an American President has ever known; but could you please shut up and return me to my regularly scheduled programming? I was so not finished cheering on Tara or ogling Ally’s belly!