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The famous clock on The Hill in Boulder, Colorado.

Image via Wikipedia

How do I put this delicately? My biological baby clock has started ticking. Merde.

On Thursday night I dreamed that I was pregnant. On Saturday I zoned out during services and got myself all worked up about the fact that when we have a baby boy and aren’t living in Boulder, none of my synagogue friends would be able to come to the bris!

There are a few things that have to happen before I’m allowed to get pregnant:

  • Ben has to finish his PhD and be fully employed somewhere (industry, government lab, or university PostDoc)
  • I need to weigh at least 15-25 lbs less than I do now or I’m going to kill my knees.

I weigh the most I ever have right now and it does not feel good. Being unemployed gives me the time to both do yoga and cook elaborate meals, can you guess which one I do more of? Thank goodness for the by-donation yoga classes at prAna (pronounced: pr anna, meaning something like breath in Sanskrit or something), or I’d be a jelly donut. Instead I’m just a donut, without the squishy jelly filling. Delicious, no?

Yes, I’ve always loved babies. I want to snuggle them and kiss them and feed them and play with them. I’ve always been happy to give them back when they’re really fussy though. Now, my brain just turns to mush when I think of itty-bitty brand new babies. I melt. And yet again, merde. Can someone please remind me in a few years, when I’m complaining about our future babies, that I really wanted them? I have a feeling that this post is going to be very therapeutic in the future when I wish I could just sleep for more than a few hours, or feed my kid something that isn’t fake, or something else that my mommy friends admit to having trouble with.

Ugh. Shut up body! You’re not ready yet and we don’t have any extra income to buy you things with yet. (Month-to-month living is no fun and very bad for our savings.)

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