It starts out so simple. So innocent. So manageable. Like a snowball, carefully shaped by a child's hands that somehow, strangely and seemingly in an instant, explodes into an avalanche, huge and deafening, bearing down on you at breakneck speed and threatening to bury you alive, leaving you to die. That's parenthood.
I was never much of a "kid person." I hated to babysit and didn't even know how to change a diaper, but somewhere in my early 20s biology or insanity, one, kicked in and I wanted babies. Lots of them. I imagined myself in a large, white farmhouse busting at the seams with an extraordinary number of kids, somewhere between 5 and 11, I think. Cheerful. Nutty. A bit chaotic. But fun...so much fun. I envisioned myself barking orders to my polite and willing accomplices in rural life and dishing out nuggets of wisdom to eager and open ears while I chopped wood and baked homemade pies. I'm not sure but I think rope swings were involved and perhaps a barn.
With that in mind I begged my husband to begin a family. I not only begged, I got downright adamant about it. Due to my endometriosis, I was afraid I would not be able to conceive, so I wanted to start trying as soon as possible. Now I'll just say this. Nothing increases a woman's interest in conjugal activities like that drive to conceive. My dear husband was thrilled at my new found ...um.... interest and, to be honest, was a little bit disappointed when my goal was reached with such ease. Be that as it may, after our second month of effort, I grew queasy, went to the doctor, and came out with a little cube with a plus inside. I started throwing up the next morning. Welcome to parenthood.