Ovariansanity

Ovaries are dangerous, folks. They sit quietly in the background while you explain to your husband-to-be that you only want two kids, no exceptions, and certainly none until you’re well settled into marriage. You are sure of this. That is, until The Ovaries don their black ski masks and sneak into your cerebral cortex in the dead of night. An adjustment here, an alteration there, and you suddenly find yourself thumbing through Anne Geddes albums at the book store and wondering if two weeks of marriage could count as “settled.”

I mean, look!

Photo credit: Anne Geddes

You go through your two pregnancies with mixed feelings, most of them worthy of Chandler Bing: “Could I BE any more uncomfortable?” and “Stick a fork in me; I’m done.” Gestating feels neither gorgeous nor idyllic, and you feel unprecedented relief once your secondborn is… well, born. You have certain “married people” talks that cause the other party in question to cringe. You give away your maternity clothes and, eventually, burn your nursing bras at the stake. To deal with two children, who together have twice as many arms as you and about seventeen times your vocal capacity, you develop coping strategies like fantasizing about the very distant future and chugging sipping vodka for breakfast before bed. You are done.

But The Ovaries, they are evil. They swap out your memories of pregnancy with Angelina Jolie’s. Nausea, exhaustion, and the unfortunate side-effect of labor? No big deal. Not even sleepless nights or financial concerns or the fact that you already burned your nursing bras matter. The Ovaries have spoken; you want another baby. Except that it’s more like need than want—true desperation for those tiny dimpled fingers, that soft, milky newborn smell. It’s a craving. An obsession.

I suppose it’s unfair to say ovaries are evil when what they really are is inconvenient. I don’t know if all women go through this, but my body is the type to hold onto the vast magic of baby-having that my mind only recalls in traces. My mind latches onto practicality; my body lets itself be enchanted. And even though my husband is likely to ship me off to an asylum after reading this post, I’m so glad to be back thinking in “oooohs” and “awwwws” and giddy delight over humanity’s most delicate form. (As opposed to “How much vodka can I slip in her bottle before someone notices?” Ahem.)