Before Dan and I got married, I had no nieces or nephews. Via marriage, I’ve acquired four, and one more is on the way. This, of course, reminds me of my lack of offspring and the impending pressure put on us to pop a baby out. Ever since Dan put a ring on it, I’ve been bombarded with demands to procreate.
“When are you gonna have babies?”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Do you feel pregnant?”
“I saw you post on your Facebook that you’re tired! You’re probably pregnant!”
“MAN you look pregnant!”
“Is morning sickness as bad as they say it is?”
“When are you due?”
“Where are you registered?”
“Boy or girl?”
“Can I babysit?”
Okay. Maybe that’s a little bit of an exaggeration. But it still sucks. I know there are people who get married just to have babies. I also know that people get married because they had babies.
But can’t I just be married for a minute? Sans kids? Just me and my husband, hanging out till 1am, sitting on the couch watching Say Yes to the Dress marathons, eating hummus with a spoon and chugging Strongbow?
It doesn’t help that more and more of my friends are becoming parents. Everyone tells me that I should babysit my friends’ kids because that’s “the best birth control.”
I beg to differ. Let me show you what I’m dealing with here:
Best birth control?
People, I don’t know who your friends are and the monsters they’ve sprung off, but my friends’ children are nothing but the world’s strongest aphrodisiac. Good LORD.
So, I’ve had to turn to other forms of theoretical birth control methods.
My best option so far?
Before I got married, “doing laundry” meant stuffing a week’s worth of clothes into the washer, plopping down in front of the TV, moving it to the dryer 40 minutes later, plopping back down in front of the TV for another hour, then spending 15ish minutes folding and putting all of it away. Just an hour and a half of my life would be wasted on laundry. No big. I can handle it.
Now that there are two adults in our house, laundry owns my life. It’s never done. I’d kill to have that hour and a half time frame back. I swear to GOD the laundry multiplies itself. I walk out of the room and come back and there is more laundry. How is that possible? And when I think that all of our laundry is either a) in the washer, b) in the dryer, or c) put away, I happily walk into one of the rooms of my house to find SOME RANDOM PILE OF DIRTY CLOTHES, silently laughing at my failure.
Dude. Add a baby into the mix and I’d never be able to leave the house. Screw that. Even if I knew my baby would come out looking as cute with as happy of a disposition as Kylin, it still would wear clothes. And spit up on them. And poop in them. You know, babies can’t wear the same pair of pants three days in a row like I can. (Oh don’t you even start judging me. You do it, too.)
There you have it. Laundry. That’s my birth control and I’m sticking to it.