You people are killing me with the cauliflower recipes. Cauliflower pizza. Cauliflower mashed potatoes. Cauliflower steak.

 You're not fooling me. I know what a good pizza tastes like and it's not cauliflower. And I like cauliflower! As a side. A vegetable. Ruffage to help me poop. Not in a steak costume. That's un-cauled for.

When you're with someone, everyone asks if you plan to get married. Once you're married, here come the questions about babies. Have a baby and get prodded on when you'll have another. I want to know, at what point, how many kids before people ask, "Planning on tyin' those tubes?" When you sign a contract with TLC? Hanna and Neno Plus Too Many to Fucking Count.  

I'm going to remain calm -- MIND YOUR BIDNESS! YOU DON'T KNOW ME; SIT DOWN!-- but like, apparently the wrong answer to the question about when another spawn will be gracing your womb is not, um, never.

People can't handle that. Not even my husband.

When the pediatrician asked how many we plan to have, I responded with one, and then seeing her horror, I quickly changed that to an unconvincing, "Uh, two, maybe?" Her response?

"No, four. Four kids is good." She's the pushy Filipino mother I never had.

Edit: This gets rambly, so reader beware.

Right now I'm in the thick fog of sleep deprivation, poopy diapers, nipple biting as my minion discovers her teef, and cleaning food off the floor and walls non-stop, so I understand that perhaps my thoughts will change once I've had a night of sleep and a solid four to eight years to forget and romanticize. However, I feel fairly strongly about not "wanting another," so I don't know. I worry that seems negative and almost as a diss to Felicity. On the contrary, I love my little family and feel it's complete. I want a career and the ability to do things I enjoy by myself and with my family (reading, traveling, running, etc),  and I also want to be a good mom and give enough love and attention to Felicity. I hate feeling spread thin. I don't want to always perform under stress. I want Felicity to have and to afford many opportunities. Want to play all the sports? Go for it, girlfriend. I got time.  I don't want to divide our attention. I don't want to worry about money. I could go on, but these are my main points and what I constantly think about. I have a perfectionist personality. I know this about myself. The idea of having more children, more plates to spin, totally stresses me out.

I even read a book about this decision, One and Only by Lauren Sandler. I read it in four days time, exclusively during middle of the night nursing sessions. Maybe reading a text so convincing and in line with my own thoughts and feelings while feeding my nursling who didn't get the judgy "should be able to sleep through the night by now" -- to quote the pediatrician -- memo, wasn't fair timing? Perhaps the other side didn't stand a chance. The author uses research and data to debunk many negative stereotypes and myths surrounding The Only Child. It was a good, reassuring read, especially from my perspective of only wanting one but constantly hearing about how a child needs a sibling not to be lonely, which is basically Neno's main argument. Talk about a guilt trip, mom denying Felicity the sibling experience, but we can not guarantee that it will be the right experience. So that argument is weak, even though it still leaves me feeling bad after I rationalize it away. On the flip side, there will certainly be attention and money and opportunities denied to Felicity as well, if we procreate again. It's a toss up, so why go with the choice that makes me want to cry?

I'm being dramatic, and this is not a decision we have to make right now, but I do get anxious whenever I hear the question. And obviously I hate that Eugenio and I do not agree on the answer.

We could totally go the other way and have 20 kids and get a show on TLC. That would be a good way to keep track of everyone and pay for food. What an experience that would be! Oh, wait, my ovaries just committed murder-suicide.

Evidence the baby is just a more expensive puppy:

I often whistle and yell, "Come here, girl!" She crawls excitedly towards me as fast as she can to lick my sweat after a work-out. She pants. She prefers to eat crap from the floor. We play fetch. I throw shit, in hopes that she'll go after it to give me a few seconds to pee or brush my hair. She wags her tongue. Destroying toilet paper is her favorite! And shoes, shoes, shoes. She crawls around the house with socks dangling from her mouth. She'll find a quiet corner and poop. The whining -- that's the worst. And man, all the slobber.

Then one day she starts to stand and talk and that's one advanced puppy.

She's been good practice for when we decide to get a dog, whom I will fully consider our second and last child. I could add a million cute pictures to illustrate this post, but I should exercise more restraint when posting baby photos online. 

I came up with a good idea. I just need to find the time to do it. We've been terrible about writing in Felicity's baby book, but I have taken thousands of photos. I've been pretty good about saving and printing them. I want to write a children's books starring Felicity for her to keep in lieu of a traditional baby book. If something is boring, I have trouble committing to doing it, but this project sounds fun and I'm eager for creative outlets while I wait for employment. The Baby Who Thought She Was a Puppy, might be the title of one of the home made books. It also bums me out to think that Felicity will have no memory of this year and next. She has a blast most days and I love watching her learn and grow. I get emotional thinking that these memories are my own and she won't remember the times we've shared. So that's another book idea, sharing all the things I won't forget. Plus, she loves looking at photos of herself, selfie baby. We have two and half months before she's one. But if I don't get around to it, just kidding, I'll just come back and delete this paragraph. 

In effort to eat more sensibly, I only have dessert on the weekend. Just a few more hours to finish this box of Samoas.

"It reminds them of the umbilical cord." Eugenio, on why babies love playing with electrical wires.

We use womb nostalgia to explain many baby things.

Felicity falls asleep within 10 minutes of a stroller run. She's like, "Home, sweet home." Reminds her of the womb, we say, noting how I ran throughout pregnancy.


Baby sleeping with bum in the air? Aw, just like in the womb. I would always feel her butt pressing against my navel.

I look forward to making awkward comments to Felicity one day. We'll be snuggling in bed watching Pretty Woman on the old classic movie channel and when she wakes up, I'll say, "You always fall asleep when we watch movies and snuggle. Must remind you of the womb."

I haven't written in awhile. It's only March and I'm already slipping from the resolution I made to write more. I usually carve out a little time each week to write by having a babysitter come over for three hours. I write, search and apply for jobs, do online errands, and sometimes, regrettably, waste time on social media. The babysitter didn't show up today. I'm not sure why. I didn't text her to ask, I guess out of fear. Maybe she forgot? That's a weird thing to forgot, though -- a standing appointment. I think I haven't texted her because I'm partly embarrassed for her that she didn't show up, in case she did in fact forget, and also the possibility that she just doesn't want to work for me anymore and not showing up is her cowardly way of going about it. I understand. I did that once. When I was 18 and didn't want to work pushing store credit cards on people at Victoria's Secret anymore. I didn't show up for a couple of days before I got a call. My sister answered and then screamed, "Hanna! It's for you!" while I attempted in vain to get her to stop shouting my name, miming that I'm not here. "Oh, uhh, she's not here right now. Can I take a message?" Before fully hanging up she begins to explain, "They want to know if you're coming to work."


But I feel like babysitting Felicity for three hours once a week is an easy, sweet gig. While I do stay in the apartment most of the time, I don't hover and I don't think I make anyone feel uncomfortable about watching my baby while I'm still there. I shut my door. I stay out of it, even when I hear that she's crying and I know the solution (the baby, not the sitter). Considering it unfathomable that a college student would no longer want to make the easiest $35 dollars ever, my mind takes a dark turn, and I wonder if something bad happened. Maybe she got into an accident? Maybe, and I'm sorry if I'm awful for wondering this, but they are my thoughts -- maybe she's dead?


Or maybe she just got a new job.


She probably hates me. That's it.


Well fuck her. She's fired.


But if she just shows up next week like nothing happened, then OK.


Look, though. Felicity fell asleep and I'm writing, sorta, so maybe I don't need a sitter after all. I just need to be better about working while she naps. I usually clean, cook, etc, while she sleeps, but I can let those things go a bit, I suppose.