I realized just the other day that I am now at the exact child-bearing age that I pre-determined for myself as the ideal age for bearing children when I was 13 years old. I must have been really in tune with junk when I was 13, because suddenly I have become baby hungry. My clock is ticking. I am a ticking time bomb. I need a baby.

I see a baby, I want it. I want to hold it and change its diaper and nurse it and nibble its toes. I keep waking from dreams where I have a baby and spend all day cooing at it and then always I lose the baby and spend the rest of the dream wondering, hey, don’t I have a baby? And then I usually find the baby in the bathroom.

I've taken to holding Peter Pan like a baby to get a quick fix, rocking him back and forth and singing You Are My Sunshine softly in his ear. Peter Pan loves this and will even put his head lovingly on my shoulder while we sway.

And so, last night, I delivered my ultimatum to the husband. We Will Have Children! I declared. I mean, not immediately. Brandon agreed and we shook on it. He worries I'm getting too clucky, and that I may spontaneously impregnate due to sheer, overwhelming desire alone. I've checked with my ovaries and they assure me that this is, in fact, possible. So. We are on the baby train. Our stop may not be for a bit yet, but the train, we are on it. We have tickets. We are headed for babyville. We are on the Local, not the Express.

In the meantime, the puppy looks sleepy, so I think I'll take advantage by dusting him in baby powder and rocking him to sleep.

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