Yes, world. I am officially finished.
Having babies, that is.
Why, do you ask? Is it too many late nights and early mornings? Too many days gone un-showered? Too many nights washing peed bed linens? Too many dollars at the grocery store?
No, nope, nah, and nay. It’s this:
It’s a hair.
A dark, curly hair.
A dark, curly chest hair.
That I found on my chest.
That’s right. Apparently giving birth turns me into a man.
I was prepared for a lot of bodily changes from bearing children, and on the whole I accept them gladly.
Stretch marks? Got ’em.
Saggy belly? Check.
Saggy breasts? Double check.
Circles under the eyes? You mean that isn’t mascara? …Oh, I guess I would’ve had to have put some on first. Right.
Hormonal imbalances? I’m sorry, I can’t answer that question until I’ve had some chocolate — dark, with strawberries on the side.
Chest hair? Oh, su– Wha huh wug???
I’ve noticed that with each birth, I’ve collected a few dark hairs in places that are generally considered the province of men. Hairs that were easily pluckable and, really, not all that strange (as you find once you get to know a girl well enough that she’ll share these things. Why is it that we’ll share all kind of weird details about pregnancy, labor, and delivery and not ‘fess up to a few stray hairs?). These I have accepted.
But chest hair?
If DB decides he wants another baby, he’d better bring up the topic by presenting me with a carte blanche gift certificate for laser hair removal.
Because at this rate, I’ll be ushering in Planet of the Apes: Mom Edition before you know it.
|That’s right, work your sexy bad self.|