The Gambler

I walk the line between wearing my heart on my sleeve and keeping things close to the vest. I’m sure I’m not alone on that line. One of the things that I’ve had on my heart lately is babies. And I’ve been keeping very much to myself about it.

I have always wanted a bigger family, at least more than 2 kids. My brother and I are 4+ years apart and were never very close. Sure, we had our childhoods together, but at some point it felt like we were two only children whose paths sometimes crossed, usually at our shared bathroom in the morning. And growing up Catholic, I saw enough bigger families than mine and the grass over there looked a little greener to me.

So I had it all planned out: meet Mr. Right (no later than college, of course), get married young, have lots of babies, live happily ever after.

God had a good laugh at my plan!

So when Fella and I started getting serious and making our plans for the future (God wasn’t laughing as much this time,) we settled on more than one (Fella is an only child and he didn’t want any of that for his kids), but no more than three.

It took awhile after the Mayor was born to get back on the more babies bandwagon. There were times that I would have been totally OK if he had been the Only. Even if the Mayor himself was telling me that he wanted me to have 15 (or was it 20?) more babies (that kid LOVES him some babies!) But Fella being the only of an only child, he didn’t want the Mayor bearing that burden.

So along comes wonder of wonders: Miss Thang. And everyone thinks it’s perfect: two—that is, one of each. So you’re done, of course…right?

When I was pregnant with the Mayor, I dreamed about having two boys. Maybe that was just another funny thing my brain was doing while the rest of me was sleeping. Regardless, pretty soon after Miss Thang, I still felt like there was still another person to add to our family.

However, I’ve been crunching some numbers. OK, maybe not exactly numbers, but time. There’s too much going on in the near future that I would rather be not pregnant for. And besides that, there’s the whole being host to another human being for 9 months (although I do love being pregnant. Mostly). Then the next year/+ on this side of the womb before they can eat real food and walk on their own. Hell, MT just hit two and she’s like the toddler version of a Stage 5 Clinger.

You know, autonomy is a really, really nice thing.

I didn’t think I’d be thinking about this much before MT turned two. But certain events accelerated the process a little bit and here I am, elbow deep in wondering if I still have it in me to have another baby. Not only have another baby, but to have three kids! I mean, that’s just crazytown! There is just no way. And as soon as I think I’ve decided that I’m done--enter crisis mode. 

So we know about the quarter-life- and the trusty ol’ mid-life crises. But this is something different. I focused so much energy in my life on getting to the part where I would have kids, the prospect of not continuing to have more kids is...it’s an existential crisis all of its own.

Let’s call it: the Post-Reproductive Crisis.

I mean, what is my purpose in life if not making more tiny humans? Yeah, yeah, I’ve still got those two other little people I’ve already breathed life into to tend to. But their childhood is finite. As is the family planning stage of life, I keenly realize. But to still be in my child-bearing years, looking my lady parts dead in the ovaries, and giving them the finger? I just. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN???

So that’s where I’m at right now: between the proverbial know-when-to-hold-‘em and know-when-to-fold-‘em.

Meanwhile (in heaven)…God holds the cards and laughs heartily.

It's True You Can't Fight It

I used to be one of those people who would bemoan that her children were growing up. You know, saying things to them like: “where did my baby go?” and “when did you get so big?” I read somewhere that this can sometimes make kids feel guilty about doing something that they are supposed to do (and isn’t in their control anyway): grow up.

Then it occurred to me, that no one ever really helped me figure out how to become a woman. I mean, sure, there’s the inherent womanness of being female, but no one wanted me to be anything but a girl. My parents didn’t want me to grow up “too fast,” which I, of course, rebelled against. So, I would take my allowance to the Longs Drugs down the street to buy the teen magazines that became my user manuals and age-appropriate makeup (thank you, Debbie Gibson and Revlon!) 

It always felt like I was sneaking around, though, probably because I was. I might have had the makeup, but I was certainly not allowed to wear it. I had already mastered the art of wearing my headgear as little as possible in the Fourth grade, so how hard could a little makeup be in middle school? (See also: #latchkeykidproblems)

And once high school and my first job came around, it was a breeze hiding clothes (hello striped bodysuit and spandex skirt from Contempo Casuals) and, um, other recreational activities to come from my parents. And I seemed drawn to people whom my folks’ would likely refer to as “the fast crowd;” my peers who were allowed to wear makeup and somehow knew how to flirt with boys whereas I hadn’t the first clue.

So maybe it should be no wonder that I often feel very much girl in a good many situations: I faked my way into womanhood. And it was a journey that I felt I had to hide from the most important people in my life, as if it was something shameful, when it is actually just what nascent beings do.

Now, don’t misunderstand; I, too, don’t want my kids to grow up too fast. But the fact is, growers gonna grow (grow, grow, grow, grow) and who am I to stand in their ways? So someone please remind me, when the day arrives that Miss Thang wants to shave her legs, wear makeup, and dress like the latest pop star, that I will take her for a makeover and shopping spree, no questions asked.

In the meantime, I will praise my kids for doing that which they do involuntarily and I will be their champion. Like just the other day, when one of the Mayor’s preschool teachers expressed sorrow in seeing how big both kids are getting. I turned it on its head (the comment, not the teacher) saying, “I know, isn’t it great?! They’re just so good at it!”

Well It's All Right, Even If You're Old and Gray

Does anyone really enjoy growing old? Of course I want to say I’m growing old gracefully, but am I really?

Instead of going gray, I took note from my grandma and started going blonder (and blonder!) at the first strand of silver. Lately, however, I’ve been wondering what my hair would look like au natural. What if silver makes for awesome highlights? I haven’t talked to my stylist about it, but that’s probably because I haven’t seen her for awhile...but that’s another story entirely.

I suppose that anti-aging isn’t the sole purpose that I use all of the creams and poultices that I do on my façade. But I have consciously switched moisturizers because of “fine lines” (moisture related, of course). And on occasion I have thought about how far ahead of the game I am compared to my mom. I mean, I think she was still sunbathing slathered in baby oil when I was Miss Thang’s age. Whereas…what’s sunbathing?

Not long ago, I was at the gym and noticed some older ladies (probably in their 60s). We were all going about our regularly scheduled workouts until it hit me: these ladies have the most uncomfortable looking bosoms. And omigod they’re me in mumblegrumble years! I decided then and there that I am having serious back and shoulder pain, such that I am in need of a breast reduction.  

And I must admit, I’ve already bought Glucosamine/Chondroitin. You know, the stuff that’s supposed to relieve joint pain and rebuild cartilage for old people? I was not kind to my body as a kid (I was a fat athlete, by most grown-ups' standards) and my joints have, at times, rebelled against me. But all the supplements in the world can’t make me remember to take them with regularity. (Is that stupid youth or early onset dementia?!)

Inside I really still feel like I’m still 24 (unless I’ve been out drinking like I’m 24 again). Although let’s face it: with age comes wisdom and I’m so grateful that I can say “If I only knew then what I know now….”

So, do I enjoy growing old or do I fight against it? Yes. And no. I’m not one to take drastic measures to turn back the hands of time, but I would like to make the most of the time that I do have in this life. And if that means smaller boobs here, a hip replacement there, then fight it is. 

And my grandma? After my mom's hair grew back in post-chemo and ditched the dye bottle, Gramma decided to let her hair go natural, too. It's perfectly white.