(I did not coin the term “baby rabies.” In fact, you should read my good buddy Jill’s blog. It’s actually called Baby Rabies.)
Today I was sitting at my desk, minding my own HTML, and experienced a vicious, visceral attack of baby fever. I had the shakes and the cravings to rock a baby to sleep and oh, how I could hear the little baby sighs and the soft light coming through the nursery window and the steady creak of the need-to-be-oiled gears in the chair. I could hear the quiet and the noise and that awake-yet-drowsy feeling…
…and there I go again. Spontaneously ovulating at the mere thought of a tiny baby.
I have an unexplainable urge to rock a baby to sleep. Anyone have a kid I can borrow?
— Beth Anne (@baballance) May 8, 2013
Of course, it probably doesn’t help that I dug out my maternity pants last night due to having major abdominal surgery just 13 days ago and needing something to wear. Feeling that familiar elastic against my belly brought back a flood of memories.
Plus, I look pregnant. NO, REALLY. I look pregnant.
7 days post-op & 13 days post-op, respectively. Thank you, surgery, for adding insult to the injury.
Then there was the whole uncertainty whether I was going to lose one of my ovaries in the surgery and I panicked. I saw the big 3-0 birthday coming at me with only one ovary and in my drama-queen ways, I had several nights crying that all I wanted was a baby before I lost all my eggs. Because I am irrational like that. (Don’t worry! Both ovaries still intact and my sanity has returned!)
Now I’m six weeks out from my COBRA coverage expiring, biting my fingernails that benefits may not come in time, and all I can think about is procreating.
I felt this before, back in summer 2008. I poured over forums online dedicated to pregnancy and secretly ordered Pottery Barn Kids catalogues. I talked my husband’s ear off about babies until he finally stopped looking terrified and agreed that he wanted a baby, too. Three years later, that baby is the light of my life in the form of blonde preschooler.
There were years where I was so happy with my perfect boy that I couldn’t imagine having another. I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect than him and worried that I wouldn’t be able to love, devote, or sniff the next baby quite the same way. Then this morning, my boy piled between us in the bed and he giggled and whispered “secrets” in our ears and oh, how my heart just ached.
He’s perfect and I want more perfection.
I want our hearts and our family to grow and I curse the calendar and the surgery and an uncertain career.
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