I called my mom today to see how she was doing. The conversation went something like this:
My Mom: “Is it true what I saw on the cover of National Enquirer about John Travolta and his wife’s new baby…?”
Me: “Ma, you’re not seriously getting your news from a tabloid, are you?”
Small talk.Talk about my son. Small talk.
My Mom: And how’s the Mommy doing?
Share my day-to-day trials with her: can’t bend over, I smell, I’m gross, etc. Then I remark on how my new baby could feasibly be born in six weeks.
My Mom: Yes, that’s right!
Me: (not thinking) Wow. I’m gonna have two kids soon…
More small talk. I love you’s. Talk about my blog. More I love you’s. Good-bye’s.
When I hang up the phone, I sit on the couch, quietly, for a moment. And then it hits me all at once:
I’m gonna have two kids.
I’m gonna have TWO kids.
I’m gonna have TWO KIDS?!
!@#$%^&* I’M GONNA HAVE TWO KIDS!!!
(Panic attack time! Squeeeeeee!)
My freak attack then goes into overdrive: What in the heck were you thinking, trying to have another kid? Didn’t you just get good at having one? And sleep! You were just starting to enjoy sleeping regularly again! Why-oh-why did you let yourself fall under that Baby Magic spell?
And so on and so forth.
Anyway, I’m better now. My mind completely shut down under the pressure of my panic attack. I’m in a very nice, numbed-out stupor. Like that feeling I get when I take medication that makes me feel drowsy: I put up a fake fight to stay awake, but I know I’m just gonna give up in the end…