“I’d give anything to have a baby.” …anything??
I’ve been thinking about this statement and I’ve concluded that my acceptable version of this would have to be: I’d give a lot, but not everything, to have a baby.
I already feel like I’ve given far more then your average crack whore, knocked up by accident, paying no attention to this fact while she shoots more poisons into her veins, giving birth to yet another addict for the rest of us to take care of. In fact, I feel as though my dedication can surpass pretty much any person of XX chromosome stature in their baby wanting negotiations with their God of choice (along with all of you, of course). To prove this fact, I will now list a few of the things that I have given to my God as an offering in exchange for a child. Apparently we’re still sitting at the negotiation table because God is not at all impressed with my dowry thus far.
- I have willingly turned in my size 6/8 body for the much more uncomfortable 12/14 model.
- I passed on spending my first year of marriage in honeymoon bliss in exchange for temperature checking, calendar counting, 1.546 billion doctor visits, 2 surgeries, 8.993 trillion needles, 9 billion hormones, several months worth of non sexual encounters with my new husband, and more moodiness then should be allowed across American soil.
- I gleefully handed over my perky C cup boobs for a new set of DD cups that hang a lot closer to my shoes then I’m comfortable with.
- I coordinated all encounters outside my home around the needs of my uterus for 2.5 years and declined more holidays, weddings, and parties then friendship law allows, due to untimely cycle needs.
- I developed a new layer of skin over my
hardthick exterior that is far more penetrable then the softest cheesecloth by which I can so easily become damaged in conversation turning me into a walking mess of emotions. I swear some cheeseball writer out there is following me around for material. (I think he watches me from across the street with a spiral notbook waiting for an episode to occur)
- I have grown hairs in places I wasn’t aware females had follicles making me a top contender for the finest circus side show on tour. I’m expecting a call soon.
- I’ve drained my body of blood at least twice over in an effort to assist my doctors in some form of communication with my innards by which they seem to have an entirely separate language & negotiation going on that doesn’t seem to concern me.
- I’ve spent more money in 3 years then my entire ancestry combined had in their first 3 years of marriage…dating back to 800 B.C. Money that I might have had more enjoyment making origami swans out of and lining the Golden Gate Bridge for Chinese New Year. Or shredding it and putting in Monster’s litter box – at least it someone would enjoy it.
- I’ve spent at least 60% of the last 3 years unable to drink coffee, each lunch meat, drink alcohol, have sex, drive heavy machinery, make important decisions, update my will, or operate a motor vehicle.
- I’ve opened up my hoohaa as a public museum and allowed visitors to revel in its beauty, free of charge. In fact, I have actually been known to pay them a significant entrance fee as a gesture of my gratitude.
- I’ve lost a job, moved to a new city, and changed my entire life because of scheduling conflicts with cycles.
- Any chances of ever wearing a bikini or cute suit are a distant (laughable) memory due to the above listed weight gain, as well as the lovely mess progesterone left on my other cheeks.
- I’ve sent several cute undies packin after accidental over confidence in feminine products during ridiculously excessive periods because of cycling drugs.
- I’ve ceremoniously released the inner optimist in me to make room for the bitter infertile that now seems to by bullying all other residents for squatters rights. (clearly bitter won out with that baby area he was eyeing as a weekend getaway)
- I’ve thrown out all baby accoutrement in my home and agreed to no longer accept these tokens until the baby can say “Thank You” for them him/herself.
- I’ve agreed to no longer consider pregnancy a happy and wonderful time in my life. I will do as discussed and act only as a neurotic, panicked, half crazed mess of a baby carrier throughout the entire pregnancy…and far into the first 3-5 years thereafter…and then the following 6-12….or so.
- I’ve accepted with passion the thought of having a boy, a girl, two, whatever. As long as they are healthy. Or not. Whatever!!
It sure would be nice if we could wrap this up soon. I’ve sent a carrier pigeon over with a new message. I’m ready to settle…