“Aw! So precious!” *turns to best friend* “Let’s both get pregnant!”
Five minutes later...
“Shut that baby up! SHUT THAT BABY UP!”
*Facebook creeps on past classmate’s new baby*
19 Minutes later…
18 years to life, Taylor. You still have things to do, places to go, people to see.
“Come here, Carson! Auntie missed you!”
11 minutes later…
For the love of all things good in this world, how can a thing so tiny be such a huge asshole?!
Baby fever, according to Urban Dictionary, is “when your girlfriend starts poking holes in your condoms cuz she's trying to get pregnant ASAP.”
I have never poked holes in my guy’s willie-wrapper, but here are things I am guilty of doing:
I have thought about what our baby would look like. Blue eyes *fingers crossed*. Dimples. Freckles. It would be doomed with big feet but, hey, better balance, right?
I have explored Pinterest searches from “baby names” to “newborn picture ideas” to “maternity clothes” to “baby shower games.”
I have imagined myself on a first date asking formalities like: Are you a real ginger? Are you an identical twin? Ambidextrous? Would you force your child into organized sports for the sake of your own competitiveness? Blue or pink? False. You are the reason boys are criticized for playing with Barbies and girls are encouraged to wear makeup, grow their hair long, and wear cute clothes that boys can oogle at. Deal breaker.
At the end of the day, the cheapest birth control I have is the thought of naps. The baby is precious, but 14 hours of sleep per day turns into four. I am envious that my past classmate has a wad of wonder, but she cannot crawl into bed after a long day and zonk for three-and-a-half hours, waking up disoriented, feeling like it is a different decade. The birth of my nephew was the most moving experience of my 22 years of existence; I love him more than words, but I love being able to visit for a few days and go back to my childless, mateless, nap-abundant life.
Maybe someday I will change my mind, plan the birth of a child and give up naps in exchange for poopy butts, sticky phalanges and a perpetually empty bank account.
For now, please do not take it personally when I do not text back for hours on end. Know that I am borderline narcoleptic and have the sleep schedule of a giant armadillo.
I will be salty and scream like this hairy albino if you get in the way of my nap time. Goodnight.
