Why I Don't Have More Than 2 Children

Whenever I hear the theme song from The Backyardigans, I have to run to the nearest bathroom for fear that I’ll puke too much to actually be able to swallow it. Because, it’s a sure thing; I’m gonna vomit. I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I absolutely respect Tyrone’s inquisitive nature and try to emulate Uniqua’s adventurous spirit, but just the first four bars of, “Your backyard…,” and I’m running for the John.  

I don’t understand women who say they love being pregnant.  And, what I mean by “I don’t understand” is that I want to punch them in the face.  I mean, I’m not normally violent (Well, not since about 2^nd grade anyway, but just don’t sing about my underpants and various Western European countries and I won’t have to give you a left hook), but if there was a scale of unfairness with 1 being paying for the cable service you have cancelled five months in a row and 10 being my personal you-wake-it-you-take-it sleeping baby rule, women who love pregnancy would be a negative 6,829.  Screw it, they might even warrant a negative 6,830.  Dead serious.

It took me about four years of pregnancy to end up with my two little heartbreakers, and every minute of it was Hell.  People who knew me during that five-year period (It felt at least an extra year longer) don’t even recognize me at all at this point; not even if I’m speaking.  And I have a cartoon voice, so it’s pretty hard to misplace me once I open my mouth.  At one point I was teaching elementary music classes.  I remember putting the trashcan next to my chair, placing my elbows on my knees and my hands on my face and asking (eyes closed), “Who wants to sing their favorite song?”  “Great, Juan.  Let’s all sing ‘Snail Snail.’”  Imagine this in the most mono-toned robot voice possible.  Then we went around the room until all 34 of my five year-olds had gotten a chance to request their favorite song.  If you’re a parent or a teacher, you know exactly which song was requested.  Yep, thirty-four snail lovers.  Well, that’s with the exception of Sarah.  That little one just replied with, “Music Teacher, I need a beer.”  I didn’t care.  Just let me almost sleep and run from the room once every seven minutes to vomit just outside the doorway.  Then there were the days the kids would arrive to music class to find a sign on the door that read, “Extra P.E. day!”  Thanks, coaches.  I’m fairly certain I would have died without you.  I would be curled up moaning in fetal position on the same carpet upon which the kindergarteners had all just wiped their boogers and stomped their muddy feet.  No big deal.  I’m just gonna barf on it anyway. 

One horrid night my husband, who was under strict orders to never eat inside the house and to take a post-meal shower before getting within a mile of our neighborhood, decided it would be okay to cook a frozen pizza since I was already asleep.  After a trip to the E.R., two bags of IV fluids, and extra doses of both Zofran and Reglan, he promised to never eat again.

So where do Tyrone and Uniqua come in?  The summer that Big Boy was 18 months old, and I was pregnant with Little Guy, all I could do was lay out the couch and press the remote.   BB was hooked on The Backyardigans, and to say I was obscenely thankful for his obsession would be an understatement.  Granted, I felt like a complete failure of a mother.  It reminded me of my friend Judy who gave up drinking after being so hung-over that she played fetch with her one year-old and a box of Cheerios for an entire Saturday.    The main two differences were that I could blame my poor mothering on my husband and the naughty things he had apparently done to me, and my hangover lasted A LOT longer.  Anyway, although I’m quite finished reproducing (than you very much), when that show comes on, my head’s straight back into the toilet.

So, if you’ve got a sweet little bun in your oven, and it all feels like unicorns, rainbow, and butterflies are frolicking in your womb, maybe just try to look a teeny tiny bit green and miserable when you see me.  And if you end up with horribly cracked and blistered nipples, I promise not to tell you all about the peacefully transcendent bonding I experienced through the joys of breast feeding.