There, that's enough of that.
Today, B is for Baby.
I love babies, had five myself and probably would have had more if the doctor hadn't informed my husband, Bill, (woot another B, am I good or what?) with a firm, steely gaze that there should not be anymore children for me. Now mind you, after my third child in three years, my doctor adamantly suggested that I not return the next year except for my yearly check-up. We waited four years. Not bad for us, and really, I looked so good pregnant. Healthy glow, big boobs, well you get the picture.
After our forth child was born, my doctor pulled Bill aside and said, "You have two girls and two boys, that's enough." But apparently it wasn't.
Our fifth and last child was a surprise, well not exactly a surprise but a little bit of a mishap. I love my youngest son dearly, but had it not been for a ruptured condom, I would be short some grandchildren right now. The whole scene went something like this.
While having some very good sex, during which I was relaxed and not worrying about getting pregnant, there was an explosion.
Me: "OMG", says I, bounding out of bed and jumping up and down. "What the hell just happened?" I scream.
Bill: "I guess it broke. Sorry," he answers, laying back on the bed with a suspiciously satisfied expression. (I mean he looked too satisfied, if you get my drift.)
Me: "Shit, I'm pregnant," I shriek, flapping my arms around and stomping my feet. "When did it break?"
Bill: "I don't know."
Me: "Well when did it start to feel good?" I demand through clenched teeth.
Bill: "Right before I came," he replies smiling.
Well damn, what do you say to that? Nine months later to the day, our son was born. See you just can't trust anything!
Afterward my wonderful doctor had a private conversation with Bill, who proceeded to make an appointment to get what he referred to as 'sliced and diced." I almost, but not quite, felt sorry for him, My doctor retired soon after and we named our son after him. True story.