Anger and deadlines

So the doctor's office told me we needed to have at least 18 months between deliveries. So when anyone asked, you know, all tentatively if we are going to try again (you know, because the third time was so utterly charmless), my stock answer is that I am not allowed to make any decisions until February. That's nine months since May, and pregnancies take nine months, and math is fun!

So, in my twisted little head, apparently, I turned February not into when we can decide what to do next, but that we MUST decide. And I have thus been a raving bitch because I did not realize what an enormous amount of pressure I put on myself.

I want to adopt every kid in the universe, but I don't think we are ready to take that step for even one. I mean, we just got a puppy. Puppies are like babies who chew the hell out of you and your shoes.

And we are both terrified of pregnancy. I am because I don't think my fragile little psyche (hah!) can take even another miscarriage, and the Husband because I am his woobie and he does not want the same issues cropping up and killing, you know, ME this time.

So I think February will come and go, and then spring will come, and maybe I can be less paralyzed by pressure and let the chips fall where they may. In the meantime, I need to come up with a nice way to say "I don't know what we are going to do. Are you and your husband going to have lots of sex/adopt/go to the doctor for your next kid? Oh, it's none of my business. I see."

Seriously, why does my kid not surviving make my reproductive plans a viable topic of discussion? I dunno. Maybe I'm all pissy about it because I am such a raving bitch.