February 13th, 2010 by Ang

The wedding is over.  Tomorrow we’ll be having our 3 month anniversary.  Which means grandmas are pushing babies hardcore.  I get it, your friends are traipsing the country visiting their 27 grandchildren and you don’t have ANY!  That your youngest is too young to be thinking about it and you doubt the middle child will ever settle down and start a family (ironically this works for both sides…)

I love babies.  I really do.  I love kids.  Babysitting was one of my favorite jobs.  I hate snotty obnoxious rude kids with a passion.  I get choked up thinking about staring down at a little baby that’s some adorable conglomoration of me and the man I love.  (I hope to God it’s adorable, because Matt says if it’s not we have to give it back and I’m not quite sure what kind of paperwork that entails.)  I’m torn because I don’t feel that we’re ready right now.  We’re not in the living situation to handle it, and I want to enjoy being a wife for a while before I’m a mom.  But I also know that you’re NEVER ready, and if you wait til you are it’ll never happen, and the not being ready is part of the fun.

We’ve talked about it.  I want three, boy girl boy.  I’d be more than happy with all boys though.  Matt wants only two, girl and a boy.  (Boy is a must or the Jandaks die out forever.  No pressure though.)  We have a girl’s name picked out, but we can’t come to an agreement on a boy’s name.  (He wants STOOOOOPID names and I want names of awesome.  Girls name is obviously awesome and shall not be shared because if you steal it I will hunt you down.  Seriously you had no idea how many names like “Gertrude” and “Henrietta” we had to say no to til we found one we loved.)  Because that’s all that matters right?  Picking out the number and sex of your future babies (Which you have no control over) and names for kids that don’t exist.  *Sigh*

I’m freaked I’m not going to be able to do this.  Not like that I can’t do it at all, but I won’t be able to do it well.  I want my kids to have the things I didn’t, but I don’t want them to be spoiled.  I want them to be tough but not cruel, smart but not know it alls, respectful but not pushovers, simultaneously gifted in athletics, the arts, and linguistics.  And they have to be ridiculously good looking.  And perfect.  And I’m not, so I don’t know how this is going to work.

See Matt’s cousin got married.  He married this amazing woman who is gorgeous and brilliant and the perfect wife/mommy.  She blogs and takes care of their two little boys (Who are adorable), and of course is a teacher, and plays all these education games with her baby and toddler and does field trips and still goes to the gym and cooks delicious healthy meals and looks fabulous for her husband.  This is not going to happen with me.  I know this.  I doubt she ever sits on the corner of the bathroom sink for 45 minutes yanking out chin hair, or lays on her back, feet pressing against the wall, lifting her butt so her belly fat shifts upwards and she can zip her stretch jeans.  I doubt she even OWNS stretch jeans!  I’m horrified my babies are going to come out with hairy Afro poof heads instead of perfectly golden Aryan locks, and they’re going to teethe on Eggo waffles dipped in Scotch instead of frozen organic peach slices.

I won’t drop them off at daycare with my hair perfectly coiffed, just the right amount of make up to flatter my natural beauty, in an adorable outfit that looks professionally styled down to my delicate little ballet flats.  The children dressed in precious little grown up clothes that smell of hand laundering and drying on a clothesline bathed in Springtime Sun, as they turn to delicately kiss Mummy’s cheek and pronounce their undying love and affection.

Instead, I will be dropping them off with my work clothes in the back of the truck, laying on discarded Eco Friendly bags so as to minimize the dog hair they collect.  My pale face glows, and I seem to stare unblinking as my eyelashes lack the mascara required to make me appear human.  My hair is thrown up in a blind amputee’s version of a ponytail, blowing my over grown bangs out of my eyes, with a baby on one hip, while under my other arm I’m trying desperately to cling to a diaper bag that could effectively house an extended family of meerkats, and a mini back pack too small to actually hold anything other than an 8 pack of crayons, 31 pennies, 2 nickels and something that used to be a dollar, emblazoned with whatever cartoon character is vital to childhood existence at the time. Barely grasping my fingertips, a toddler is yanking at the over-sized sweatpants I wore to bed the night before. I’m trying to remember what underwear I have on, since that factors into my mental debate of whether to release his sticky little hand (Which would of course mean he would instantly be transported into the middle of the road and hit by a truck carrying some sort of explosive toxic material, as that’s what happens the second you let go of a toddler’s hand) to attempt to preserve my quickly slipping modesty, or let him pants me in the middle of the parking lot.  They will be wearing whatever clothes were in my immediate vicinity, and all too late I will realize that in Jr’s eagerness to prove to me that he can dress himself, instead of the adorably preppy plaid pants I thought he put on, he is actually wearing a pair of his father’s boxers, fastened with some strange assortment of tape, gum, playdoh and string around the waist.

*Sigh*