The Itch

Little Freddie is ten months old and already acting more like a kid than a babe. For example, he ate quarter of a grilled cheese sandwich yesterday. He dwarfs his little cousins, and after I cradle those tiny boys in my arms he seems a giant in comparison.

I mean, look at these two little chalupas!

Also, I'm still leading the local breastfeeding support group, so I get frequent exposure to babies of various ages and mamas-to-be.

All of these things has set my womb to craving an occupant.

(DISCLAIMER! I am not planning on having any more babies. And unlike in the past, when we were not 'not trying' to get pregnant, we are actively NOT trying to get pregnant. That sentence is like a riddle! To clarify: the goalie has been put back in the net, so to speak.)

I know it's all just hormones, but right now I'm kind of understanding how my grandmother ended up with eight kids, and my great-grandmother with eleven. I feel a desperate, primal urge to reproduce on a daily basis. It seems like as soon as my youngest becomes the weensiest bit independent, I want to replace them with a helpless, floppy newborn.

I will say that, in the past, these feelings were much more intense. When we decided to add a third kid to the family, thoughts of babies filled my every waking thought, and even some of my nighttime ones as well. Also, the thought of making Fred a middle child of sorts is unbearable. His overall perfectness has really cemented my decision to have him be my last. I want to relish in his every moment, and I really feel that no other baby would have the same effect.

But even though my head knows these things, the womb doesn't quite. All it knows is that it doesn't like being empty for long. Perhaps I could start stashing my spare change in there.