Knocked Up

“She don’t care what her momma says, No, she’s gonna have my baby, Taking all I have to take, This takin’ is gonna shape me, People call us renegades, Cause we like living crazy, We like taking on the town, ‘Cause people’s getting lazy” – Kings of Leon

I have baby fever, actually I have baby madness. The firenzy only amplified while watching The Kardashians, the episode where Kourtney gave birth to daughter Penelope. I watched as she anxiously waited for her cervix to dilate. I watched as she pulled the baby bare-handed, pulling her from cavity to chest to coddle, welcoming her into the world. And… I cried. On my couch. Boo hoo’d puddles, a flow of grief pulling on the fullness of my cheeks. The death of a desire I rarely express, yet always wanted.

I literally wanted to run out in the streets screaming to every man I see—INSEMINATE ME! GIVE ME LIFE! Then I’d pause for a breath and ask them if they pay their taxes. “Excuse me sir, do you contribute consciously or unconsciously to the IRS? GREAT! Now please donate your sperm in the same way you give to FICA, unknowingly and with expectation of great reward later.”

I love babies. Adore them. Bask in their presence. They bring me joy. I’ve had names picked out since, forever; solidified since high school. Debating between 3 and 5 little, itty, bitty ones. I think often of the type of knowledge I would impart, on the charges I would give, on the raising of my prodigy.

I could simmer in the smell of babies. Never mind if they cry for hours, after the immense success of ceasing the tears. Nothing can beat the sound of a child’s laugh or the excitement they experience on an adventure. When they learn something new, when you’re the one to teach them, when they then use that lesson for the rest of their life: remarkable.

I just want to give breath to a miracle, a hand that holds thumb to forefinger to the breadth of my palm to the clasp of maturity, a piece of forever that I can call mine. And I want it now.


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