After the baby...or babies (5.16.06)
So...what does one do with one's life after she has officially closed up shop on procreating?
I have already signed the little thingie stating that I want my tubes tied on the table when I have my C with Evan. Whatever it takes. I love my children and I wanted them all, especially this, my last one, but I've been shooting them out for 20 years now. I figure it's either time to a) quit it, or b) take up life in a trailer and get a bad perm. So I'm taking Option a).
I asked the doctor about the procedure but he was very vague. I told him to do whatever must be done in order to ensure that I, a haggard, craggy old thing of nearly 39 (holy shit!), never become knocked up again. I figure he can cut, tie, yank, remove whatever is in there, clamp it all, put it on his shelf as a keepsake, and maybe for extra insurance he could tattoo "DO NOT ENTER" below my belly button.
But now comes...after.
As a little girl, I thought about "becoming a woman". As a young woman, I thought about "becoming a mother". (Not JUST about that, but you know what I mean.) As a young mother I thought about becoming a mother again, possibly. And 17 years later it happened, and then again 3 years after that. Which brings us to now.
What's the "after" this time?
Getting old and dying, I guess.
I guess I have no excuse any more to put off really digging into writing this book. I don't want to become one of those horrible old ladies who still believe their kids (even if those kids are by now 30 years old) are their whole life (sorry for the bad grammar there). Yughhhhhhh.
Is it "me" time soon?
Holy crap. I don't know what to do with myself. In only about 18-20 more years, Colin and his brother will both be in college. And then, after 40 years (yes, 40 years) of motherhood, I will finally be able to greet Dave at the door wearing nothing but a goofy grin.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...