It’s Just a Stage

So, I have to get a new car. It’s breaking my heart. I have to hug and cry over my bug every time I see it. But, you know, growing up happens. Despite my bug’s deliciousness, it can’t, sadly enough, hold babies in it. Also the breaking down every month is wearing on my significant other, whose job it is to fix it. I’m somewhat excited. I mean, if I get a new car it will have freaking cup holders! You never know just how glorious cup holders are until you don’t have them. Kind of like blood. You never know just how important it is until you start losing lots of it, you know? And seat belts that retract! And a working radio! And I could actually hear the music over the sound of the engine….

My poor bug...
My poor bug…

No. It’s too much. I can’t become a freaking zillionaire like this. A car that nice is just too much. I mean, how can I live without those rusted through holes on the bottom to splash my friends with when it rains?

Of course, it’s a stage I gotta go through.

And then there’s babies. Good GRAVY babies. My religion teaches us that God commanded us to have children, and I’m not fighting it. I’m cool with kids. I mean, when you grow up with ten little brothers and sisters, you get use to them a bit, ya know? Poop, screaming, flailing Barbie dolls, mistaking pee for apple juice–I’ve seen it. Yeah. I could do that. That’s not the problem though. It’s the pregnancy. Some of you laugh! But you see, there’s one thing I fear most above all else that makes this particular obstacle deadly to me:

I have a phobia of vomit. Seriously.

And what comes with pregnancy? Lots and lots of it.

But my husband is on a roll. He’s looking up the onesies, he’s looking up the binkies, he’s swapp’n paper towels on his sandwiches like their diapers–and just the mere mention of having his own little demon to screech and chuck barbies at his face makes his eyes all sparkly–and then he gets this goofy smile on his face. Aw gosh…I thought I was the one that was suppose to be baby hungry! Female and all. I just keep looking at him and wondering how he’ll handle my hysteria’s when all things digested come pouring out of my mouth. Wow….children are beautiful, aren’t they?

But, you know, it’s just stage I’m going through.

So now that I’m considering all thusly above, I have to consider either A. Getting a baby friendly job (wait…I’m actually considering going through the whole bloated vomit infested affair? Huh…), or B. just quit work entirely. But what about the zillion dollar car? WITH CUPHOLDERS! And what about the doll flinging machine that’s going to come from my body like that alien in Men in Black? (I still think my little brothers are aliens) How is my husband going to support all that—the cupholders, the chucking spawn of my loins, the vomit disease, the WORKING STEREO—without me? I’m freaking out! Like, really! This is a huge, life changing deal! I’m a working woman! But…

It’s just a stage I’m going through. I’ll get over it eventually.

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