The Incorrigible Night Owl

My apologies, in advance, to anyone with fertility problems who might read this and think I’m horrible and ungrateful. I’m thrilled to bits to have a new baby coming. It’s what I wanted and hoped for. So don’t get me wrong, here.
But, my God, I am SO DAMNED GLAD that, in 25 weeks, I will be done being pregnant and will NEVER have to do it again!!!
I have never been one to get goopy and sentimental over being pregnant. To me it has always been a means to an end. The first trimester has always sucked. There’s a brief period during the second trimester, after I get over being sick and before I get enormous, that is kind of interesting and neat, but it doesn’t last long. I pretty much spend the majority of the 40 weeks wishing it was over already. This time is no exception. I thought that, in light of what happened last fall, and the fact that I really wanted another baby, and that this is my last pregnancy, I might experience a change of heart but……no. Pregnancy still is basically just a necessary evil. It is no more fun this time than it has been the other two times. Perhaps even less, as this is the sickest I’ve been out of all three. This gestating? It’s for the birds (who’ve got it right with the whole egg-laying thing).
Every time I find myself hanging over the sink yet again I just keep telling myself, “You’ll never have to do this again. In 5.5 months you’ll have an adorable little baby and you’ll never have to do this again!”
“What if something happens to Robert, God forbid, and you remarry?” people ask. After all, being that he’s all old and stuff, you never know. I sure can’t pretend to know what the future holds. My answer to that, though, is one word:
A. DOP. TION.
I will not do this again; I just won’t. I’ve passed on my DNA three times now. I know how it turns out: well. I manufacture some pretty fine specimens, if I do say so. I have both genders represented. There is nothing left for me to wonder about. I feel 100% confident that my gestating days will be over, come March 2007. I am happy, nay, ecstatic, with this conclusion. There is no doubt in my mind about sending Robert merrily off to Doctor Snippy in the spring to have permanent steps taken. And, okay, let’s say something did happen to him (God forbid, knock wood and all that). Even if I moved quickly I would be, what, 35 by the time I remarried? You’ve got to shut the factory down at some point. I’m worn out trying to do this again at 32; I don’t care to try it at 36, 37, or beyond. Fuhgeddaboutit. I would kind of like to have my kids out of the house while I’m still young enough to have a little fun.
So, yeah. 25 weeks and counting. I hope my uterus enjoys its last big hurrah.