I’ve toyed with the idea of having another baby because let’s face it, babies are adorable. I really like the two I have, and sometimes after a glass of Chardonnay, I think I might like another. But here’s the thing about babies, they are hard freaking work. And then, they turn into toddlers, who turn into three-nagers, and eventually, teenagers. As much as I love my kids, things would have to be different for me to entertain the idea of adding another monkey to this circus.
But hey, you only live once, right? So, yeah, I’d have another baby…
If pregnancy wasn’t 40 weeks of suck. That’s right, I said it, pregnancy sucks. Sorry, I know a bunch of you just recoiled in horror, but it’s just not my jam. I know plenty of women who rock a baby belly like a boss. I’ve even seen of few of those glowing-type mums, but I’m not one of them. I spend the better part of nine months nauseous or vomiting, and don’t even get me started on the heartburn.
If babies were born sleeping through the night. I can only survive so long on fragmented, crap sleep and mass quantities of caffeine. I need sleep to function like a somewhat normal human, and newborns give zero shits about how much sleep you need.
If my nipples were made of actual steel. The first three weeks of breastfeeding is as close to torture as I ever want to come. God creating breastfeeding: Let’s have the new mum clamp a screaming toothless piranha on her tendered, probably cracked, maybe bleeding nipples as a food source. Oh, and make her uterus scream in agony while it’s happening. No. Just no.
If I didn’t work full time. Because I get to haul my sleep-deprived, hormonally-wrecked self back to work the minute the clock strikes twelve on FMLA eve. Pass.
If daycare wasn’t a million dollars. If you’re planning to work outside the home to, I don’t know, feed your family or provide health insurance, that shit will cost you a kidney—minimum. I have two kids and two kidneys, so I’m out of organs.
If someone else agrees to potty train this kid. Listen, potty training is the worst. I’m not doing it again. You can’t make me.
If I wasn’t judged for every parenting decision I make. My kids use dummys—I don’t care for how long. I co-sleep, let them eat sugar, and don’t get a rat’s ass about screen time. According to everyone on the internet, I suck.
If living in squalor was socially acceptable. As it stands, I only have two kids, and my house looks like ground zero of a natural disaster. People are running around in less-than-fresh laundry and eating stale Froot Loops for dinner. If that’s not okay, I probably shouldn’t have another kid.
If I could get on a permanent meal train. Is this a thing? ‘Cause it should be. “I hope you enjoy this homemade casserole! Love, Brenda” Yassss, girl. Sign. Me. Up. I’ve always loved Brenda.
If I was guaranteed a maximum number of visits to the pediatrician. If you have a kid, I don’t even need to explain this. Find a germ, get a virus, lather, rinse, repeat. I see our pediatrician more than I see my hairdresser. I have split-ends, gray hair, and a monthly payment on every virus and infection known to man.
So there you have it. My kids are amazing, and motherhood has humbled me to my knees—mostly cleaning up messes, but humbled just the same. If you’d like someone to snuggle your baby, so you can have a break, I’m your girl. Like I said, babies are adorable, but you’re taking that little bundle of sunshine home with you at the end of the day. Short of these 10 very specific miracles coming to fruition, this mama is done.