“Honey, pass the peas, please…. Bucket Head, stop licking your pork chop!… Who set the table? Nice job on the napkins, Mini-Me…. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Vincent has a band concert on Thursday; can you get home early?… Hey you guys, who wants Mommy to have another baby?”
“MEEEEEEEEEEE!” the kids all screamed simultaneously while my husband’s eyeballs popped out of his skull and rolled into his mashed potatoes.
Did I really just say that? Out loud?
And my kids actually WANT me to have another baby?
What the what?!
I’m 43 years old. My husband had a vasectomy nanoseconds after Bucket Head’s birth. I have no business thinking about another baby.
And yet, I do. I think about it. Continue reading