Oh my god. If one more person around me has a baby, finds a baby, adopts a baby, or somehow or other procreates, I think I will scream.
Even the FISH are having (or at at least trying to have) babies—shad roe, a traditional New England-y, old-time-y sign of spring along with asparagus from Hadley, Mass.—is in the fish store.
Don't get me wrong.
I love babies.
Babies are the future.
They are amazing, cute, innocent, smell good in a peanut-butteresque way.
But with all my emotional and physical baggage surrounding the whole baby-making oeuvre, all those babies a' poppin' and a poopin' are causing a kind of painful, disfiguring, mental baby acne.
And to boot, I'm having serious PMS and cramps. I think it's my uterus' way of saying, "Well, if you're not able to use me, I may as well do something interesting."
An organ has to feel useful, you know?