Thursday, February 22, 2007
...As in moi, not the kids.
Cecelia came by on my birthday at 8:30 am with a homemade cake and a gift certificate to a spa - Burke Williams, no less.
The irony did not escape me that while she was plying me with a 2 billion calorie confection yesterday, she expects me to put on a bathing suit next week. Just one of womens' many double messages that make us so complex.
This combo goes along with me wanting a third baby so bad I could spit (even though I'm teaching my kids not to.) The fact that Rex had his tubes tied and one more child would up my Zoloft dosage from 100 miligrams to "Ingest One Bottle/morning followed by vat of Vodka at night" does little to quell my desire for more rugrats.
Nary a night passes, as we sit toe to toe on the green sofa (my first, and last, new furniture purchase from Macy's - pre children days) where the following conversation does not ensue:
Me: Honey, the kids were so great today. I love them so much I could put them on the William Sonoma casserole dish from your mother and eat them for protein.
Him: I love 'em too, babe.
Me: I mean, doesn't the joy they bring us... the laughter... the closeness... the familial warmth make you want to have just one more?
Him: (Not glancing up from his tech manual). Not one bit.
Me: This conversation is not over.
And until women aren't crazy, conversations of all forms never will be.
Now excuse me while I sniff their sleeping heads so much that I risk waking them up or passing out from too much oxygen.
I wish I was kidding.