A Girl...

Girl Power

What to say? Truth is, I'm struggling with perfection, which, as SAJ so eloquently noted today (using the example of chocolate cake! yum!), means I have nothing to write about. I suppose I could complain about my lingering phelgm issues or about the weird crease in my too-long bangs, but alas I was born burdened with rational perspective and therefore have trouble sweating the small stuff, no matter how hard I try. As soon as something gets on my nerves, I usually take a step back, realize it's not a big deal at all, and voila, I'm over it before it's even begun--molehill to mountain to ground as flat as my chest at age ten.

In summary, everything is just dandy and I've nothing of consequence to say. That is unless you want to peek inside the little pocket of wacko, where I keep all my irrational thoughts and desires. Let's do that, shall we? Okay!

Guess what time of year it is? It's the time of year when I become afflicted with the Baby Crazies and am overcome with the desire to push forth from my girly bits a person of my own making! Hooray! Huzzah! Sarcasm!

(Although this seems to happen annually, I don't know what it has to do with the season other than the fact that Spring is when all the flowers bloom and chicks hatch and rebirth and renewal and pastel nursery colors are all around us. This morning when Simon asked me why I was insane in the membrane, I blamed it on the baby lambs, although I think it's also the fault of those frilly little Easter dresses, size 0-3 months, and their matching bonnets with pink ribbons that tie under the chin.)

Before I continue and lest anyone get unnecessarily excited or stark-raving panicked, let me be perfectly clear that my womb is not in the market for a tenant. It's just window shopping. (Mixed metaphor? Check!) Given the opportunity, of course, I'd jump right in with both feet, but thankfully one of the two people in charge of this endeavor has his Air Jordans planted an inch deep in cement, so it's waaaaay too early for anyone to start knitting any wee caps.

Like I said, I'm an unusally balanced and rational person, and I generally don't let anything unbalanced or irrational get the best of me. When I start getting the Gaa-Gaas, I simply take a step back, examine the impracticality of the situation, and resolve to think on it no more. But damn if it doesn't go away. Damn if it just keeps getting worse.

Being that (a) I have not traditionally been a big fan of babies, and (b) I'm at no point in my life to think a baby would be okay right now, what's with the persistent urge to spawn? How much is it the burning of my fertile Mormon loins, how much is it that I'm almost twenty-seven and this is the kind of thing twenty-seven-year-olds do, and how much of it is that Simon's chocolatey-brown eyes are just begging to be replicated?

But how much--get this!--is just me being a showoff? That's right: it is entirely possible that I want to conceive, gestate, push forth from my girly bits, and raise a child just so I can prove how well I can do it. I say I got straight A's in school because I liked symmetry on my report cards, but there was also a little showing off in my motivation too--why not in family planning as in algebra? Is that totally nuts or what?

Yes. Yes it is.

I also suspect it has something to do with my need to assert my independence by doing what I want, when I want, other people's schedules be damned. As soon as outside forces threaten to limit my options, my first reaction is to fight the system and show it who's boss. I don't want my future determined by Chile or the real estate market or coworkers' maternity-leave plans; I want an Oompah Loompah NOW.

And then there's Simon. Calm and forgiving. Understanding and patient. He knows just how much time I should be allowed to spout off about such things before telling me enough already or the next stop is the nunnery. But even though he thinks I'm insane and would probably prefer I stayed mute on the subject for another five years, he's at least treating it seriously, validating me, and reassuring me, even though it sometimes comes out in a peculiar way, e.g., while we were watching The Sixth Sense over the weekend, he used Haley Joel Osment's character (or maybe Haley Joel Osment himself?) as an example of how sometimes breeding can go sour and you end up with a freaky freak freak of a child that sees dead people and wears slacks with elasticized ankles.

Of course, when you get right down to it, I don't really believe I want a baby to show off or to prove I have ultimate authority over my own life. That's just the brain trying to make sense of something that doesn't make sense. In truth, I want one because I want one. I just feel it; there's no explanation and no apologies. I guess I'm pretty much doomed to this baby-wanty funk.

Sigh.

Luckily, some times are better than others and occasionally a whole hour goes by when I don't think of little arms and legs bouncing in the Bjorn. But then Amalah goes and writes an entry like this and all I can say is FUUUUUUUUUCK. When is it my turn?

Posted by Leah at March 21, 2006 03:15 PM