When I started my infertility treatments last week my doctor asked me how badly I wanted a baby.
“On a scale from one to ten, one being that you do NOT want a baby, and ten being that if you don’t have a baby soon you WILL TAKE UP PERMANENT RESIDENCE AT THE STATE MENTAL HOSPITAL, how desirous are you to have a baby?”
I looked out the window at a gorgeous view of Timpanogos Mountain. It was two years ago that I could’ve easily said “ten.” But Time took me by the hand and showed me that it was having children that made one move into the State Mental.
Recent conversations played back in my mind’s movie theater:
“My friends came to visit and he took off his poopy diaper, stuck his hands in it and rubbed it all over the carpet.”
“. . . then she got into my 2 gallon shampoo bottle and spilled it all over the bathroom. There isn’t one drop left in the bottle.”
“He came home with a note from his teacher explaining that he failed to follow instructions at school the entire day.”
“When we had dinner last night, my daughter wouldn’t come because she says she’s too fat to eat.”
“He built is own fireworks for our family Fourth of July party. Now the police are pressing charges.”
“She tells me that she plans on moving in with her boyfriend next year when she is finally 18.”
“He married her. He married the alcoholic! What are the chances that my son’s fourth marriage will possible last through the end of the year?”
“I am so tired.”
“I am always tired.”
“This is hard.”
I looked at my doctor and sighed.
Eight is good, right?