More of me. Just what the world fucking needs, eh?

So I'm obsessed with making babies.

This is a perfect example of how I go from "meh" about something to "every waking moment of my existence will be spent thinking/planning/day dreaming about this." I am not a patient person (which probably points to a problem I might encounter with parenthood) and when I decide I want something, am ready for something, or shouldn't have something...that's the very instant I MUST HAVE THAT SOMETHING.

Doesn't matter what it is, really. A dog. A house. A cocktail. Hell, even Gray. It took less than a month for me to go from, "He would make someone an amazing husband," to "GET IN MY PANTS, MAMMOTH DICK." I still think he's trying to figure out what the fuck happened that month. There he was: single and semi-obsessed with my sister. Then BAM. He's living with me and has a ring on his finger. He's going to figure it out eventually, which explains the hefty life insurance policy I took out.

So this baby thing isn't a new obsession for me. A couple months after I got into Gray's pants, I drank a liter of wine and told him that I wanted to have babies. HIS babies. Like, yesterday. Proving how disoriented he was (and how much of his blood was partying in his penis), he agreed with me and said I had a green light to make his babies.

Taken slightly aback, I decided we'd better wait until, you know, my divorce was final. And stuff.

We made a baby in 2008 but we lost him at eleven weeks, so the baby making obsession has been on the back burner for a few years while I pulled my head out of the oven and did some maturity regression techniques, like this blog. And like chopping off all of my hair. And like getting married.

Okay, I guess that last one doesn't fit the bill.

Anyway, we'd planned to begin Operation: Baby Making back in the fall after the dust from our wedding and honeymoon had settled, but then we bought a house and decided to wait until the end of the year so we could get moved in. Little did we know I was going to DIVE HEAD FIRST from the basement stairs (helpful hint: just because the basement floor is painted blue doesn't mean the cement is soft like water) and was put on a medication that prevented us from trying to get pregnant, unless we wanted to inflict our kid with spina bifida, in which case we would have been golden.

I stopped taking that medication two months early because (SEE FIRST PARAGRAPH) and now we're waiting the final months until its icky fingers are out of my system.

My OBGYN (best doctor in the fucking universe) wanted me to gain a little weight...BAM! Thank you lethargy and Dots!

My cycle needed to return to normal after years of suppressing my period and a couple of non-cycling months due to the head injury, and WHAMMIE: I'm bleeding all over my underwear RIGHT THIS MOMENT.

I'm using a website to track my monthly cycle and describe the viscosity of my ::gulp:: cervical mucus. Gray and I are back to playing our "text each other random baby names all day long" and the good ones make it onto my Excel spreadsheet of baby names (which uses the data filter tool to mix and match middle name candidates with the first name candidates to verify that the initials don't stand for something awesome, but sadly, inappropriate).

Every time I see a baby, a picture of a baby, a small-sized animal, or the tiny Mickey Mouse t-shirt in my bra drawer, my eggs come squirting out of me and shoot all over the damn place.

You don't want to borrow my keyboard, believe me.

I'm frantically planning the last of our pre-incubation social gatherings, including our first grown up dinner party. I'm finishing the big painting projects around the house (as quickly as I can gather free paint to do so). It's going to be like living in Sesame Street once I'm done, and HOW PERFECT FOR BABIES IS THAT?

And also, I'm kegeling. I'm kegeling like fucking mad. My abdominal floor muscles can kick your abdominal floor muscles' asses.

And don't even get me started on how long I can hold my pee.