Mr. A and I finally had The Talk. No, not the talk where we discuss Why Men Put Dirty Dishes in the Sink Instead of the Dishwasher, nor Why I Prefer Shoes to Food.
The Talk where we discuss becoming a family of four. It went something like this:
Mr. A: “If you got pregnant next month, they would be three years apart.”
Me (face draining of color like a Victorian who has seen a lady’s ankle): “I need to sit down. Can you open some wine?”
Seriously, Mr. A, you can’t just spring something like that on a girl, like a monster in a closet leaping out when you are only in a towel. It isn’t polite.
Being a mom to Miss L has been, and continues to be, an incredible experience. Sure, she’s occasionally bratty. Sometimes bossy. But mostly she’s a pretty fabulous little kid. I think I really lucked out with her. Pregnancy wasn’t so bad, either. My boobs aren’t the same, but they aren’t terrible, and there’s no sign of stretch marks anywhere.
Somehow I don’t think I will be so lucky the second time around.
And beyond those minor, selfish complaints, I have one really huge issue: I don’t know how to do it. Not an f’ing clue. If my only child-free time is weekend naps, which is about two hours a day, and an hour after Miss L goes to bed, that adds up to 9 hours a week. Just 9.
If I remember right, newborns take up a lot more than 9 hours a week. How do people do it? Multitasking? Multitasking is just a nice way to say you’re doing a half-assed job all around. I don’t want to half-ass being a mom.
Unfortunately, I know how these things work. Now that we’ve had The Talk, I will probably be pregnant within a year.
So thanks, Mr. A. Thanks a lot.