Oh wait, I'm talking about my children. Excuse me while I get back on track.
I've never been a fan of children. No, that's not right either, I've never been a fan of children in romance novels. I like my smut straight up and and the dirty bits I want to read about are not something you wash out in the toilet. (Oh yes I did use cloth diapers!)
As a young mother, I read to escape the realities of ear infections and projectile vomiting, not wallow in it. Spit-up in my hair was not sexy, despite reading about the handsome young doctor who can overlook such trivialities as he rescues the hapless single mother from a life of poverty, providing her with riches untold and an enormous cock. Please, if he'd showed up at my door, I would have handed off three babies and taken a nap. I bet the studly doctor wouldn't be quite so amorous after an afternoon of ear-piercing cries from gas-ridden imps who pulled his hair and stuck a finger up his nose! (Remind me to tell you sometime about the trip to the ER with a bead stuck in my daughters nose, or about what happens to nail polish when it's dumped in a bathtub full of water with a toddler still in it. (Ugh, still gives me chills.)
Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, I don't particularly care for children in romance books. If you've read my books, you may well ask yourself how I ended up with exactly that, and I will answer, "I have no freaking clue!"
They just appeared, much like an unexpected pregnancy, uninvited yet cherished and not one child, nine! Nine children in my O'Malley books and now Molly is pregnant with twins. Good grief, I need a nap.
Why don't you check out some of the other blogs, while I do that.