The Countdown

Every couple months, I’ll point out a cute kid and remind my husband that I’d like to be pregnant in two years.  It’s been "two years" for about three years now.  When I recently revised it to one year and ten months, he freaked out and said, “What happened to two years?”

I understand his hesitation.  Whenever I see a frustrated mother dragging around a screaming child, I immediately break into a cold sweat.  Given my own personality and that of my husband, I suspect our kid will be especially prone to whining and throwing tantrums.

Nonetheless, I really do want to be a mother... eventually.  My reasons are as follows:

1.) I refuse to let these twin-bearing hips go to waste.

2.) As illustrated in the movie Idiocracy, I feel compelled to pass on our genes.  Our kids will no doubt be uncoordinated, allergic to everything, and have giant feet, but at least they’ll be intelligent.

3.) As illustrated in the show Toddlers & Tiaras, there’s a lot of bad parenting going on.  I’m confident that I will be able to avoid the major pitfalls and make only minor mistakes, like guilt-tripping my kids for ruining my social life.

4.) I have a phobia of becoming a lonely old person.  When your kids get older, they’re obligated to call you on a regular basis and invite you over for holidays.


Since motherhood is looming, my career crisis needs to be resolved ASAP.  It’s hard enough for a new mother to maintain an existing career, let alone jump-start a new one.  I will also admit that I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a stay-at-home mom.  I think I’ll be a better mother if I have at least a part-time job to escape to.  Maybe I’ll feel differently once I have my own child.  I’m basing this theory purely on other people’s children.

Bottom line: I'm feeling the time pressure.  The back of my mind keeps repeating, “Must have thriving career in two years.  Must have thriving career in two years...”  Oh wait, one year and ten months.  Crap.