The other day I said to my husband: "I think I'm pregnant." There had been a condom malfunction incident a couple of weeks ago, but we'd been trying to put it out of our minds.
And he kind of went green, and we sat down on the sofa and stared into the distance. I sensed that he was trying to find the silver lining in the cloud. I know I was.
I laughed, a little hysterically. "I mean, I hope to God, I'm not."
"Yeah, so do I, because you really couldn't cope with having another kid."
"You're right," I said (we have two). "Let's hope I'm not."
And yes, thank God, it now turns out that I'm not pregnant, and now it's time to get serious. No more playing Russian Roulette with condoms that burst. It's time to get my tubes tied and put an end to the possibility of having more kids.
Actually, I think he's going to get a vasectomy too. Although maybe the doctor will refuse to do it because he is only twenty-eight! No matter...if John does want to remarry I believe vasectomies are reversible.
There is just absolutely no way I could be pregnant, because after that ohmygodcouldibeohfuck incident I know that I really don't want to be pregnant. It's just so weird being an animal (like we humans are) and a slave to instinct. When I see friends' babies I just feel all gushy and warm. Everything about a baby is so totally - perfect - I suppose it's sad that I will never have one again. But not that big a deal. I mean, I can still hug other people's babies. Smell other people's babies. What do they put in babies? They're like a drug. God, the small of babies...it's so good.
See, I kind of want one, I'll always want one, being an animal and all, I'm just going to make sure I don't ever have one.
Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptime www.cocktailsatnaptime.com
My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?