The pressure's on. Many of my mommy friends are pregnant with their second children. You know, Gwyneth Paltrow and Brooke Shields. Emily Rankin and Beth Wardy (who both have babies younger than mine).
It is distressing to me. Because I don't want to have another baby (I can hear the collective gasp from the grandmothers and aunts in the audience). I am not saying I NEVER want to have another baby. I just don't want to have one yet. And I might not. I just don't know. Is that okay?
Lu is perfect. I largely enjoyed being pregnant, except for maybe the very beginning and the very end, when Maggie informed me, "Those don't even look like your feet." And they didn't. Strange feet aside, pregnancy was pretty much a glorious, princess-y experience (if you were going to be a kind of puffy princess). Delivery: also good (at least as good as pushing a piano out of your privates can be). Infancy: good, and when it was not good, it was hilarious, which has always been good enough for me. I can safely say there is no trauma that I fear repeating.
Maybe I fear the second one won't be as great. Maybe I am afraid my slightly more slack stomach will collapse into complete matronly squishiness. Maybe I like this precious, perfect life we have, balanced like a Jenga game on a windy day.
Whatever. I have my reasons. Don't give me a hard time. I am an only child, after all. As everyone knows, we are very defiant.