I believe that I have mentioned my personal belief that misery loves MY company and as such, I must always be mindful of people trying to rope me into situations that are chiefly designed to make me crazy. I am mostly successful, but this
hyper paranoia vigilance often leads to nights spent communing with a berry-pie sundae, trying to engage with whatever visual crap I have located between channels 207 and 575, while ignoring my husband's rants re: World of Borecraft guild politics. (brief aside: I am starting to wonder if this might be a self-fulfilling prophesy. shit.)
I am not sure what spawned a sudden resurgence of interest in casa t'pon's reproductive plans, but in the past 72 hours I have fielded no fewer than seven inquires as to the ETA of our third child. Is it the fact that the baby-weight I chased away while on maternity leave, came back with ten of its friends and set up camp ever so sloppily in my mid-section? Is it that my friends and family continue to struggle with the will of Gahd, who has chosen to withhold the girl child to whom I had hoped to bestow all of my feminine wisdom and whiles (well at least as soon as I figured out what those were...)? Is it because Banzo has started to walk at the tender age of nine months and the baby cuddliness is starting to give way to the purple and green shine of toddlerdom? Could it be that these well-intentioned, highly inquisitive folk think that I am the kind of parent who makes this shit look easy?
Let me make something crystal clear here, there is no and will be no third bean.
Why? Because even with the wonders and convenience of modern science at my disposal and the help of a team of dedicated childcare providers... we are barely holding this shit together. I got a memo from my pinkie nail yesterday requesting paid disability, claiming that the burden of holding on (particularly given the return of the aforementioned fat) is causing undue stress and strain. We have since switched responsibility for holding on to my pinkie toes, but that is dicey... I have very squatty pinkie toes. They are like the hobbits of the foot world -- they aren't really even whole toes, more like the top of a toe stuck directly to my foot, and the toenail is not even worth the dot of nail polish it takes to cover it. Crap, where was I... see what I mean, driven to distraction.
At any given moment, someone is crying or shouting about something, even if they can't remember what it is they are crying/shouting about. There is a basket of clean clothes on my couch that I have been living out of for two weeks (and yesterday, I had to smell the pit of a shirt before I could decided to put it on). In the past two days, I have very nearly impaled my foot or broken my leg as a result of stepping on legos in the dark, trains left on the stairs, spit up on the tile, or dogs under foot. I haven't seen the cat since Banzo tried to violate him with a purple crayon yesterday afternoon. The other day, I caught Bean mountaineering in the pantry, helping himself to some uncooked pasta and peanut butter. I haven't had a good night sleep in three years. And I just ate a piece of Kr*ft Mac and Cheese off of the front of Banzo's onesie.
I am pretty sure that I got myself into this situation because someone told me that N. and I would have beautiful children and be great parents. That is right, I let down my guard and I was sucked in by an ass kissing. But fool me once... blah blah blah. I am not falling for that crap again. I love my kids dearly (and they are pretty cute, if I do say so myself) but the thought of adding another to the mix and tilting the balance fully in their favor makes me throw up a little in my mouth.
The only way that I can see clear to having a third is if Gahd comes down to discuss it with me directly over a giant latte. And, I do not mean a burning bush or dove or some other shitty sign that is subject to misinterpretation. I mean, Gahd himself... face to face at the bargaining table. And He is going to have to be prepared for some pretty serious demands. Like it HAS to be a girl, who is guaranteed to be potty-trained from birth, will sleep through the night, and is completely void of the tantrums -- both toddler and teenager varieties. I will also require a slamming body four days post-partum and child support through age 21. Quite frankly, I have to believe that He has bigger fish to fry, so there you have it.
No mas ninos... It is important to respect one's limits when it comes to drinking, long distance swimming, high stakes poker, and child raising. Two is mine.