I do not want any more children.*
I despise being pregnant. I am sick constantly. I throw up anytime, anywhere– sidewalks, stores, cars, front lawns– I’ve done it all. I worry about every potential abnormality and complication. I stress about lack of movement but don’t enjoy being kicked in the ribs in the least. I hate having to pee constantly. I can’t sleep a wink at night, but am unable to keep my eyes open all day. I am entirely unpleasant to be around for the full nine months.
The souvenirs my children have left on my body frustrate me daily. The baby weight is a bitch to lose. My stomach is a road map of stretch marks and my once bouncy hair is an undecided mess between curly and straight. I have a patch of gray hair above my right temple that I attribute solely to my children. My feet are a full size larger than before, and not one of my glamorous high heeled shoes come close to fitting my bloated stepsister feet.
I am totally content with the family I’ve created; I’m in love with them all. I’m happy that the kids are so close in age. I think three is a nice round number– not too many, not too few. I’m lucky enough to have both sexes. Lily is quite enough girl for me, thank you very much, and three boys just sounds insane. I feel like our family is complete. I’m ready to sell the crib and drop off the infant carrier to Goodwill. Totally.
So, why, when I hear of people who are pregnant do I feel this nagging, jealous pang right down to my ovaries? Is that normal? Because I don’t like it. Not one bit.
* (At least not for a long, long time. But, future child, in the slim chance that you should you exist, I wanted you and love you. Please ignore my rant.) Shit, now I’m talking to an nonexistent child. What the hell does that mean?