Three and a half years ago Lt Hubby and I decided that we were done having kids. D. O. N. E. With the then upcoming deployment and the four already existing dudes, we conceded to the fact that our plates were full enough. But without making any of those decisions "permanent", we apparently left the door open for unseen options, fates idea of a practical joke, or otherwise divine intervention to have its way with us. Thus, in two years we found ourselves with two new babies being added to our clan; one courtesy of a pre-war rendezvous that ended with me peeing on a stick, and the other courtesy of someone else peeing on a stick. Either way, both moments of stick-peeing resulted in a very real "Detour Ahead" realization and left me very grateful that I had kept all-things baby from the first 4 dudes.
I've since learned that keeping baby stuff only tempts fate to exercise its own free will...once bitten, twice shy! And I refuse to be "bitten" by any additional ill-advised rogue male spermies. Hence, Operation "Sort, Donate, Purge" needed to happen sooner rather than later. Since there is no time like the present, I submerged myself into the daunting task. I've saved and used and reused all the baby gear, clothes, and equipment from the original dude 14 years in the making. It. Is. Time!
I was more than ready to say adieu to all this "stuff"...or so I thought. It seems that touching, holding, caressing and reminiscing over items that cuddled, swaddled, and clothed my 6 babes with the intent of purging...FOR...EV..ER (this must be said like Squints from "Sandlot") was emotional, nostalgic, and borderline painful for this mama that is 100% done having babies. I mean...I think I'm done...I'm pretty sure I'm done...yeah, I'm done. You see, my house is overflowing with kids and kid stuff, my vehicle is a borderline clown car masquerading as a Taxi, and I have to be able to feed, clothe and educate these 6 somewhat demanding, time consuming people! And someday I would like to hang out with Lt Hubby without swollen ankles, injured perineum, suspicious lingering kid odor or a demanding kid calendar battling for our time, energy, and attention. We. Are. Done!
Something strange happened, however, while surrounded with baby clothes that my smelly stinky dudes once wore in their most innocent, dependent, delicate state. My uterus skipped a couple beats! It actually ached and seemingly longed for those quiet stolen moments that I alone got to experience of my unborn baby's movements. It was my own selfish moments of the most heart wrenching unexplainable love that I will ever experience. And I'm never going to get to have it again. In that moment of letting the realization of done-ness sink in deep...my entire body mourned for this apparent "loss"...and yearned to capture those memories.
But...We. Are. Done! No part of me really wants to do middle of the night feedings, explosion baby poops, or contractions! Hello?! Labor sucks...really sucks, and I don't ever want to do it again. But try to tell my uterus that when faced with purging the baby stuff, and you will be faced with a real vagina problem! It seems that my body feels the need to procreate...or at least practice the art of potential procreation! I'm horny as hell, and it was spurred on by Operation "Sort. Donate. Purge." I keep trying to get Lt Hubby's "attention" to quench my apparent burning loins! This is so unlike me! I equate it to a black widow trying to lure her next victim. Lt Hubby better watch his back because I'm sure it's a trap (by the way, you need to say "It's a trap" in the same way as Sheldon from Big Bang Theory...it makes it funnier!) I fear I may sink my teeth into him in order for myself to seemingly conquer this unexplainable quest! I'm out of control! I've never found Lt Hubby more irresistible!
Since I am apparently unable to control myself I need to call in the girl posse. I need to be restrained and quarantined until this "feeling" passes...or dies! Send in the boycotters, "Hell no! She won't blow!"; the army needs to fulfill their call of duty of no man left behind and rescue this soldier...he may very well be my next POW. I'm sure his punishment didn't match the crime, but since I'm certain he isn't going to complain too loudly, someone needs to save him from himself. A man being tortured by his horny, seemingly-needs-to-procreate wife probably can't be trusted alone with his own judgment anyway. We need reinforcements!! Consider this our S.O.S (Stop. Offering. Sex!)