Long ago, I used to think I would “someday” want a shit ton of babies.  Understandably, I was young and “someday” seemed like a million years away.  I was naïve enough to believe that motherhood was simple and easy and I would master it entirely.  These days, I’m far more realistic in knowing that motherhood is often painfully difficult and sometimes only having TWO penis people leaves me huddled in a corner, methodically rocking back and forth, waiting for the sweet, peaceful relief that comes with bedtime for the fuck trophies.

With wee penis person’s fourth birthday having just passed and the eight year old penis person turning nine soon after, I quickly found myself in the midst of a penis person birthday party extravaganza.  Each year, I promise myself (and the Dick) that I will tone it down and each year I completely amp up the crazy factor.  THIS year we ONLY invited 17 munchkins and their parents (yes….THIS was toned down).  The older penis person has tons of fantastic friends….the wee penis person has a small handful.  Therefore, I was in the midst of children varying in ages from three to ten.  I’m a sucker for a good party and I’ve never been comfortable with deciding which friends and family to delegate off the list of invites.  So there you go!  I hired the Tumblebus,  set the dial to all things fun and went for it.

Oldest penis person also has a number of friends on the Asperger’s or Autism spectrums.  This made planning a party that was both fun and not-overwhelming a bit difficult.  But I think I managed to do it with some success.  I also wanted the parents of these friends to be able to sit back and relax as much as possible, comfortable in the fact that they were among parents like themselves, in a judgment free zone.  I hope I was successful there as well.  I like to think maybe I was.

Then, in what can only be described as a momma who’s always uber graceful (NOT), I took a dive off said Tumblebus steps and promptly landed hard on the cold concrete.  I was pretty sure I could plainly HEAR my foot bone snap like a winter-dried twig (which is appropriate….since….it IS winter).  OUCH!!!  There I was, trying desperately to hobble around (though I probably SHOULDN’T have been hobbling) and in some fairly intense pain.  There were a few times I quite literally just scooted my ass across the floor (take a moment….build a mental picture and laugh your ass off, I’ll wait).   But I refused (despite the insistence of many of our party-goers) to go to the ER.  THIS was MY babies’ birthday party.  I’m just OCD enough to spend roughly four months planning this shin-dig.  I had upwards of 50 people here.  I was so busy trying to be the hostess with the mostess that I told myself I was fine and that I would go to the ER when the party was officially OVER.   Flash forward four hours later, when I finally permitted my wonderful Sis-In-Law to drive my silly ass to the ER.  BROKEN confirmed!  DOH!

Several times, while at the ER getting xrays, I was asked if there were even a CHANCE I might be knocked up!  AS IF?!?!?!?!?   My super-duper birth control is firmly in place and with only a medical intervention will I produce another tiny fuck trophy.

So why the hell do I find myself…….wondering?!?!?!?  I’m most certainly CONVINCED I’m quite happy with our family of four.  I’ve made sure to secure the birth control that will ensure I won’t get knocked up simply because the Dick was uber charming and I was inebriated on cheap vodka.

But here I am….on the precipice of 40 myself….and feeling mostly nostalgic.  I  miss the smell that comes from a baby freshly bathed.  I miss the cooing.  I miss that moment when they speak their very first word or tumble through their very first step.  I miss stroking that ultra fine baby hair.  The way that a baby looks at YOU!

And then…..I politely tell my uterus to just shut the fuck up and take a beat to let the nostalgia pass.  I don’t even think I really WANT another baby….I just maybe need to get myself a baby fix and snuggle it and bask in all that baby gooeyness.  And then hand that lil ankle biter back on over to its real parents and bid them farewell the very moment it howls from hunger or soiled behind (or simply no reason at all).

Several of my friends are all packing away or donating off their baby items.  Just recently, I had stumbled across wee penis person’s last remaining baby item our house.  I quietly resolved to snap a few photos and then offer it up on Facebook to anyone who might need it.  No sooner had I fully unpacked it and was preparing to photog away, wee penis person spotted it and decidedly claimed IT WAS HIS and he wanted to play in it.  I calmly but firmly told him that it was going to another little baby who needed it more.  He seemed quite unconvinced about whether or not he was ok with this plan.  Instantly, he began to reminisce, as best as a four-year-old can, about being a baby not so very long ago.  We sat and we talked and I was instantly transported to a time and space where he was tiny and helpless.

I’m quite guilty of trying to hold on to his baby-time for far too long.  I only JUST recently, and sort of forcibly, eradicated his precious paci from our lives.  I was incredibly late tossing away, once and for all, his baby bottles and exchanging them for big-boy sippy cups.    HE, my wee penis person who BROKE himself OUT of his crib far too early, was always so busy rushing to meet every activity that would bring him one step closer to being a “big boy”.  Me, always trying to hold on to every last single moment of baby-hood, desperate for anything that would keep him my little baby just a short while longer.

And so, I find myself trying desperately to balance the fact that babies are inherently cute little shits (even when they ACTUALLY shit) but that this is not reason enough to rush head first into generating another baby. I ignore the fact that my uterus is double-dog daring me to put it to good use.   And I calmly tell my uterus once more to JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP and stay empty, thank you very much.