Mike and I have talked about having a baby. We've talked about having one (or trying to have one, at least) sooner than most newlyweds may consider reproducing. Sooner as in the coming months. Before you start with the judging (Hi Judgies! Thanks for coming! Would you like a drink? OK. I don't know if No, whorish lush was altogether necessary, but welcome anyway*), we've also talked about moving to Alaska or becoming professional poker players, so our talk isn't nearly as please-take-us-seriously as other adults' talk.
But Mike is older than me. (He's hitting The Big 3-0 this year and the only thing getting him through this milestone is the fact that getting older does not force him to mature, and by GOD people he will fart in public as many times as he has to in order to hang onto his immaturity if he can't hang onto his youth.) Mike has always known that he wants to be a dad, which is a really endearing and surprisingly sexy quality in a man, aside from that red hair. Which, people, if you don't think he pulls off like a ROCK STAR, then maybe take a look at this:
And this:
You can't have him though. Sorry.
I've always known I want to be a mom, but in the same way I've always loved heels. See, if you press me hard enough to expand on my feelings, I usually break down and admit the pain associated with either (babies and fancy footwear) hardly seems worth it when there are such nice substitutes in this world as our dog and J. Crew flip-flops.
But the clothes in BabyGap aren't completely lost on me and there are full days at a time when I think: I want —right now—something to fit into those little khaki cargo pants. But one thing that was not good for my internal conflict about parenthood was spending a week with some of the cutest and well-behaved babies around.
These three:
(Noah, Jake, Micallen)
They were all born within five months of each other, and if every woman on earth spent time with just one of these little princes, the birth control industry would become bankrupt in mere days. Spending time with all THREE? NOT SAFE. Let me tell you just how good these babies are: I decided—months and months ago—since we are so blessed to have these three baby boys in our family, we needed to properly whore out their cuteness on our wedding day. I came up with the idea to stick them all in a wagon, in matching adorable outfits, and have Robbi (Micallen's mom) pull them down the aisle. Now, when I began voicing this idea, I got lots of mixed responses. From "OH MY GOODNESS THAT'S SO CUTE YOU MUST TAKE A BAZILLION PICTURES!" to "Huh? You really are insane. I thought you just talked about being insane to get a few laughs, but, no, you're like totally effing crazy." Now this was back when I thought the wagon they were to be pulled in had wood slats on all sides to prevent the infants from falling out and cracking open their heads. Nothing says "this wedding is good and ruined" like bleeding infants. (You can quote me if you'd like.)
But, the wagon didn't have wood slats (see picture above). It was just ... a wagon. And I thought, Oh Lord, their moms will never let them be pulled in this. I then had a drink because the same day I found out about the wagon, I found out 10 guests were no longer coming (the same day that happened to be, oh, two days before the wedding), and at that point I just wanted to send out a mass e-mail stating, "WE DIDN'T SPEND ALL THAT MONEY ON RSVP CARDS SO YOU COULD WIPE YOUR BUTT WITH THEM." Instead I had another drink.
But the three boys are as wonderful as they are because they all have wonderful mamas. Mamas who let me dance with their sons when the open bar had already made me its bitch.
And mamas who when told about the slatless wagon just smiled and said, "Oh, it'll be fine!" Then I had another drink because I love those boys and those boys' moms so much. (I had the fourth drink because I don't have boundaries, but that's for another post altogether.)
But the boys were perfect. Micallen WAVED all the way down the aisle. The boys, all three of them, became instant friends, sharing pacifiers and plotting how to become the center of attention, and, kiddos, trust me, JUST BE YOU. When they came down the aisle, there was a long drawn-out "aw," and if you were there and seeing those boys didn't make you want to immediately hump your date in order to try for something so cute, then you're heartless and to be honest I'm not totally sure how you got invited to our wedding in the first place.
So you can understand how getting married and officially being allowed to procreate (no dress to squeeze into) while simultaneously being around him:
And him:
Oh, and this one, too:
would royally mess up my hormones—and my relationship with strong margaritas. And you can probably understand how relieved I was to sit by a toddler in Chipotle who threw his mom's burrito bowl across the restaurant, flinging rice and beans all over a perfectly nice looking man, while CACKLING and pointing at his horrifying behavior. All the while his mother cowered and apologized to all around without ONCE saying to her child, "Oh no sir. You mess with my Chipotle bowl, you don't eat for a week." That was the sentence that came to my mind, but apparently that's not appropriate parenting, and it then dawned on me, if I'm not allowed to starve my child in order to get across the lesson: Do not come between a woman and her Chipotle goodness, well, then I'm definitely not ready for parenthood, because, apparently, they don't all come out like this:
And anything less than this doesn't seem worth it right now. Maybe one day. But until then, I'll keep on being this woman:
The drunk aunt who won't put her arms down but gives her nephews anything on earth they want, including her heart.
*When I read Mike this sentence he said to me, "Wait. You have conversations? In your blog? With your readers?" "Uh-huh." "Yeah, we're not gonna make it." Then he went to round up Molly and a suitcase.