Thankfully, I am rarely asked about Corey and my baby-makin' time table.
Whoa. Great way to start a post, Stace. Just jump right in there.
It's not that I don't like answering questions, the honest answer just delves deeper into our lives than most people really care to go:
"Why yes, Corey and I plan on having children, but not until we can learn how to not kill each other over which bread we buy. There is a big difference between white and wheat, you know."
Well, it's wasteful to buy both, and wheat is soooo much better for you.
But that's beside the point.
If we can't agree on bread, how are we going to name the kid or decide which peanut butter to feed him?
I also don't think people want to know of my child related phobias:
"I would love to have a wee little one right now but what if I hold it too long and he or she is then unable to make friends in 10 years??"
That happens, right?
It doesn't help that everyone I know is having babies and sharing all kinds of less-than-glamorous stories of pregnancy and motherhood.
And by everyone I mean two of my real life friends and two bloggers I follow. I tend to exaggerate.
Here I was thinking parenthood was like those Rice Krispies commercials and then these people come along with stories about boogers and projectile vomit and cutting areas that are not meant to be cut (please don't ask me to elaborate).
And pregnancy is, apparently, not just like carrying a basketball around under your skin. Unless basketballs these days weigh 30 pounds, sit on your bladder and kick your ribs.
Don't even get me started on nipple confusion. Those conversations brought on a whole new paranoia:
"So I can actually shoot milk in my kid's eye if I'm not paying attention?!?"
And I don't need anyone to feel sorry the unfortunate curse that has, no doubt, befallen on my mate:
"Mr. Lucas and I are waiting until we are mentally prepared for the wrath of Corey, Jr. as punishment for Corey Sr.'s maniacal behavior as a small child."
This time I do not exaggerate.
But still, the ultimate answer is yes, Lord willing, the babies will come.
I may barf for nine straight months and keep my darling child strapped to me until he or she is 18, but, so help me, I'm gonna do it.
In a few years.