(I suppose a disclaimer is apropos in that I actually do like babies and think folks who want babies should get to have babies. After all, babies are great. But. And, of course, the story is in the but.)
Back when I was a high school English teacher, I experienced many things in addition to a paycheck. Of course there were the ubiquitous papers to grade and facial tissues to dole out during cold and flu season. But I also got to distill some advice upon the hapless ears of my students. Sometimes that advice focused on the dire effects of poor comma placement. But sometimes it was along the lines of babies and reality.
Some days, I get why all those 1950s moms were hopped up on Valium much of the time. It’s days like that when I really wish I could “Calgon, Take Me Away” right to some deserted desert island complete with a cute cabana boy and lots of those drinks that come in coconuts and sport a wee paper umbrella swizzle stick. Of course, knowing my kids, they would figure out a way to find me. I swear, the umbilical cord may be cut, but you birth a baby and they get a GPS unit more effective than anything Garmin could ever whip off an assembly line. So, thank all that is good that I have a husband who can take over while I lock myself in the bathroom or do some mindless aisle therapy at the nearest shopping realm. (And I’m not even much of a shopper! Of course, my local Target understands motherhood. Have an in-store Starbucks and a magazine rack and the frustrated mamas will come by the van load. Ka-ching.)