Who's getting fixed? You or me.

Here is a subject for ya.  How big do you want your family to be?  Good ole common sense says if you must, replace yourselves and call it a day.  Or maybe your common sense says, "bring babies into this crazy world?...no thanks".   Some people may even say, "as many as the good Lord will provide" (gag).  I mean come on, there has to be some sort of limit.  Unless you have a crazy amount of money or an insane amount of help (neither of which I have).  But here is the dilemma.  How do you get comfortable being DONE?  You know, finished, grateful, and satisfied that you have rented out your womb for the last time.  I, for one, am enthusiastically finished most of the time.  Like 98% of the time...but there is always that 2% somewhere in the deepest most psychotic parts of my brain, that like to play games with me late at night after one too many glasses of wine. 

This conversation came up on girls weekend and I found out that I am not the only one that struggles with this.  In the throws of a REALLY long and hard day with the kids there will sometimes be honest discussions about somebody getting "fixed".  Then the realization will hit that we are both fairly young...I mean Hubs is not even 30 yet!  How could we possibly make a decision as monumental as that when we are still in our prime!  It is just lunacy to say the least.  Your brain tells you one thing (THE RIGHT THING) and your stupid body wants to make trouble.  SERIOUS TROUBLE.

After the complications with my second pregnancy and the fear that was put in me, I swore up and down that I would never EVER go through it again.  I mean months of therapy, endless crying, and NO sleeping for nights on end had really made me a firm believer that pregnancy was for the birds, or maybe people that enjoyed being tortured with the unknown.  Questionable prenatal testing results.  Wonky ultrasound findings...I mean how do you really tell if a twelve week old fetus has a small nasal bone?  Aren't they all small?  The baby is like 12 centimeters long!  It all led to me being DONE.  FINITO.  ALL SET with doing it ever again.  But that damn "time heals everything" really is a bitch. 

No I am not getting pregnant again.  At least not anytime soon.  I just really wish that my brain would tell that psychotic piece of itself that it needs lithium.  Or less wine.  But we all know that isn't going to happen.  I need that wine to deal with our replacements.

I think this might be the solution...blow this picture up REALLY big.  Put it right next to the bed and every single time psychotic brain comes out to play...LOOK AT IT!  Do I really want to look like that again?  Come on people...THAT is not a flattering look.  But it is a accurate depiction of a landlord to a rental uterus that was left a disaster.  It is going to take that poor landlord YEARS to fix that place up.  Sad part is they had no security deposit.