When I was pregnant with Casey, I was pretty vocal about how much I disliked being pregnant. I didn't like the morning sickness or the heartburn or the swollen feet or the stretchmarks or the high blood pressure or the optical migraines that made me go blind or the sobriety or maternity clothes. The list goes on and on. I did like when I felt his kicks right up until the day he was born. I liked the thickness of my hair. But ultimately, that was about it. Now my hair is falling out, by the way, and I'm not liking the male pattern baldness.
I pretty much had myself convinced that Casey would be our one and only baby. No one really jives with the idea of an only-child for some reason and no one really seemed down with me only having one. Although childbirth was a breeze, I felt that while I loved my son and loved being his mother, the first couple months of him were kind of torture: sleepless nights, constant breastfeeding, hormonal imbalances and postpartum depression. And lets not forget the TEN WEEKS OF BLEEDING. Good times that I am not crazy about repeating.
Anyway, during Christmas time I sort of changed my mind. I remembered how great it was having a brother even if there were times we sort of fought to the brink of death. Even though I am 4.5 years older than him and sort of became his guardian at a certain age, at one time he was pretty much a full-time playmate. I remembered matching pajamas and sleeping in the same room on Christmas Eve. I saw commercials for Target where multiple children were racing down the stairs on Christmas morning and, well, I think I changed my mind.
I'm not going to run out and get pregnant tomorrow, but maybe in a year or two. After all, I made one cute baby. Why rob the world of a second?
MORAL OF THAT STORY: I'm a flip-flopper. A mind-changer. A say one thing and do another kind of gal. Love it or leave it.