(I wrote this the other night while visiting Kate)
So I’m here in southern Illinois with my dearest friend and her five week old son. He is a beautiful infant, all curled up in that sweet peanut shape, doing that mouth slapping thing when he’s hungry, and having magnificent blowout diapers. Yeah, I high-fived him on one today, it was epic.
And I’m giving thanks constantly for the blessing that is a vasectomy. That I watched. And saw smoke. ‘Cause I wanted to make sure it worked.
Having an infant, especially a newborn, is the hardest thing in the world. There’s no talking to, no negotiating with, a creature who doesn’t give a rat’s ass what kind of day you’re having or how little sleep you’ve had or whether or not you’ve gotten to pee all day.
(As I’m writing this, it’s 10:40 pm, and the little guy is crying and I can feel Kate gently cursing him under her breath and wishing to hell he’d sleep for another hour. I know this situation; I lived it with A in all permutations.)
As difficult as they can be, and as batshit crazy as they make me, I love the stage my boys are in. They wipe their own butts. They feed themselves. A can make sandwiches and J can pour cereal. Both know how to refill their water bottles from the filter in the fridge. They play together wonderfully and both sleep through the night.
I am so grateful that we are done having children. Two is our limit, the most we can do. The other night we took A’s girlfriend to the school musical with us and holy hell, having that third one there…we couldn’t keep track of all three kids! We’d get two corralled and then lose the third. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I can’t imagine starting over with another little life. Another little boy, ‘cause let’s be honest, if by some wacko freak of nature a little sperm ignored the “bridge out” sign and jumped the divide, it’d be a boy. You know it, I know it. Murphy and his little effin’ law have the upper hand here. The mere thought scares me. Tom’s brother and wife have a little surprise due in September…8 ½ years after their first and 5 ½ years after their second. I try not to think of me in that situation; my stomach can’t handle that much more stress right now.
For a long time, even after the Big V, I tossed around the notion of having a third. Adoption was always there, right? Until this year. And then I realized that my baby days are behind me and I’m so good with that. I’m into the school ages days and love it. I can enjoy my boys and not gently curse under my breath the little tyrant who won’t let me sleep. I’m in a good place now, for the most part.
You do realize, of course, that by even mentioning this, Murphy is hiding the “bridge out” signs and rallying the troops. ‘Cause he’s in charge and likes to remind me of that fact. Hey, Murphy? Go bug someone else for a change. I got boys to go enjoy.