I had a dose of the hormonals this week.
It started on Saturday when the fella told me that he is so traumatised by the births of our sons that he would have to seriously question whether he would be ok with us having any more kids… ever.
I totally get where he is coming from. Greys Anatomy would have had a field day during my labours, but given that I was teetering on the edge of a hormonal episode, I took great offence to this, and went wallowing into my depths about how I could possibly go on without a third child.
Let me break it down for you:
Right now, this minute, we couldn’t possibly have another kid. It is not even REMOTELY in my normal frame of reference.
If we had another child we would have to:
1. Get a bigger car.
2. Get a bigger house.
3. Get more money, so that we could eat.
4. Most likely, get me some sort of plastic surgery to pick my stomach off the floor and staple it back where it belongs.
The reason why I am so concerned about this hormonal, and its significance, is that a year and a half ago I had a similar episode. Matthew was about six months old, and I started getting this rush of ‘I’d LOVE another baby. I really would’. Two months later, and I was prego again.
So. The fella has been banned from my personal space. We are taking major precautions here people. No accidental babies in our house, thank you very much. Not for at least four years, when the boys are reared enough to babysit. Or maybe three years…
But not now. Definitely not now.