Dear Biological Clock, Please Chill The F**k Out
Dear Biological Clock (or “you crazy Bitch” as I am prone to calling you),
We need to talk. Your behavior lately has been unacceptable. Much like my wonderful, 14-month-old son, you only occasionally heed my “no,” and completely ignore being told to quiet down. I have little recourse but the internet-shaming other parents seem to find effective.
Honestly, I know you did me a solid. Had my overly-cautious, hyper-planner self been in control, my insides would have stopped working long before I decided I was emotionally and financially ready to be a mother. I needed you popping up constantly after I turned 30 to spur me along, and so I forgive you for most of the insanity.
While I will never appreciate you constantly trying to convince me that any man I met was good enough for procreation, I do appreciate you latching on to the awesome man who became my husband and pushing me past my usual fear of new people.
And yes, I was on a clock, so I have decided to be okay with you constantly telling me that my ovaries were shriveling by the second.
Most importantly, I am so glad you finally declared that you would not be appeased any longer. It would have been nice had you STFU once we started trying. Getting through the tough months it took to conceive would have been maybe 1% easier without your hysteria, but at the end of the day, I got my son. And he is wonderful, and I thank you for kicking me into gear.
Now you seem to have selective amnesia, so let me remind you of a few things.
I know you were there for the four weeks of prodromal labor. I dragged you and my giant ass around the neighborhood, walking for hours to try to get that kid out. Did you sleep through the 27 straight hours of labor, two hours of pushing, and emergency C-section? Because I didn’t.
Surely you remember all of the crying when he was a newborn — mine, not his. How about him not sleeping for four months. Does that ring a bell?
You know that I feel like I just got my body back, right? Do you have any idea how liberating it is to walk out the door without a breast pump? Or how amazing it was to recycle that whole cabinet of bottles? Most importantly, do you know how much I relish drinking a guilt-free glass of wine finally?
Bottom line: I do not need you right now. I am not saying never, but I am giving you a strong “probably not” on any more kids, at least any time soon. So you and your bitchy hormone friends can just knock it the fuck off.
I don’t want any more guilt out of you. If my son has siblings, great. If he doesn’t, look at all of these cousins he can grow up with. I am sure he will turn out just fine. I am not failing him as a mother if he turns out to be an only child.
Yes, those newborn clothes I am buying for a friend right now are so tiny. Thinking of when my little guy was that small makes me ache. But then he reaches for me and hugs me and kisses me and giggles, and that is so much better than when all he did was eat, poop, and cry.
So stop putting ridiculous thoughts in my head. When I think “I am not ready to make him share my attention yet,” I do not need you piping up with “but think of what a wonderful big brother he will make.” You and I both just watched him try to bite the dog. Again. I am doing any hypothetical future kids a favor by waiting until all of his molars are in to introduce them to the world.
Finally, and I debated on whether or not to tell you this, but you, my hormones, and my uterus may not even get invited if we bring another kid into the family. You can blame whichever masochistic part of me felt that 24 weeks of morning sickness was a good idea or my friend, the social worker, for helping me to understand what adoption can mean for a foster kid.
Here’s what I am getting at: This decision belongs to the adults in this family and we are perfectly happy with the way things are right now. I am going to need you to quiet your tantrums and stop trying to push me into things I don’t want right now, or so help me, I will schedule my husband for a vasectomy. You will have no one to blame but yourself.
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