Dear Biological Clock,
I have this picture of you in my head, with your pencil skirt and high heels, your hair coiffed and your makeup perfect. You’re a prim and proper battleaxe with an agenda. For others, maybe you look like the grim reaper, but for me, you’re just a horrible nag who won’t shut up. Even when I do what you ask me to do.
It started when I was 27 and newly married. The first of my friends were having babies and, while I knew I wanted to spend some time with my husband before starting a family, you wouldn’t leave me alone. Pregnant women gave me butterflies. New babies turned me into a pile of mush. Just one whiff of that new-baby scent and I was picking out names. I imagined way too often what an amalgam of me and Blaine would look like. It was barely a year into our marriage before I started charting cycles (well, non-cycles for me) and less than 18 months before I sought out a fertility clinic, knowing PCOS could make things challenging for us.
Relief, along with HCG and prenatal vitamins, coursed through me when the test was positive. Biological Clock, you were happy then—for all of five minutes. You left me alone for the duration of the pregnancy, and you watched on contentedly when I held newborn Sophie in my arms. But you couldn’t even give me a friggin’ week before you started nagging again. She didn’t even weigh ten pounds yet when I said to Blaine, “I feel like I have to do this at least once more.” Seriously, Clock?!
Eighteen months later, you were at it again, with your jealousy of baby bellies. I held you off until Sophie turned two—the test turned positive a month after her birthday. You’d think you would have been ecstatic by the time Juliette arrived in the middle of the next year. But you’re never happy, are you? You left me alone for a little longer after Jules; I didn’t feel your irritating finger needling me until a year in this time.
But here’s the thing: We’re calling it at two. We’re (mostly) sleeping again. We’re approaching potty training for the last time. No one screams for an entire car ride to my in-laws up north. Our girls are starting to play together. We have only two more years of paying as much for child care as we do for our mortgage. You need to shut the hell up and leave me alone with the carefully thought-out decision we’ve made.
Stop giving me a pang of sadness when I see the burgeoning belly of an expectant mama. Stop making me smile stupidly at newborns in the mall. Stop making me feel jealous when a friend posts a pregnancy announcement. I did everything you asked, Biological Clock! Everything! Now let me enjoy it and Just. Go. Away.
When I was younger, I thought you, dear Biological Clock, were something that ticked incessantly and poked endlessly before I had kids, but I’ve learned this isn’t the case. You just stand there, for as long as you can, no matter what I do for you, looking at your clipboard and giving me the cut-eye when I say no. Well, I’ve had it. No, you jerk, just no. You can’t push me around. Go find some 23-year-old to torment for the next decade, okay? Okay, great. I mean it. Right. Now. And don’t show your face here again.
Walmart Live Better editor-in-chief Katie Dupuis likes structure and organization—a lot. Now imagine this Type A editor with a baby. Funny, right? We’re sure you’ll love Katie’s musings on life with Sophie, Juliette and husband Blaine. Read all of Katie’s Type A Baby posts and follow her on Twitter @katie_dupuis.
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