If you read the title and you’re scratching your head, allow me to explain.
Last week I had the pleasure of babysitting a 6-month-old baby girl who I will affectionately refer to as “Baby Girl.” (Clever, no?)
Baby Girl and I made fast friends as her 6-year-old big brother and BooBoo were classmates last year. We had a special bond, Baby Girl and I. I’d hold her at school pickup and chat away with her mom while she’d smile and grab my hair. She was one of the few babies (aside from my own) who didn’t fuss when I held her, making me feel like a baby whisperer if only for a few minutes a day. I fell for this sweet baby in record time, so when Baby Girl’s mom needed a sitter for a few weeks, I was so there.
Up until this point, I was pretty sure I was done having babies, especially since my husband and I have been working tirelessly on home improvements meant to undo all the wear and tear our kids have made to the house. I’ve been honest with my heart’s desire for another baby, how I wished I could experience the joy and wonder of a daughter, and even the selfish reasons why I probably shouldn’t make a go of another pregnancy. I even resigned to the difficult decision of not having another baby in favor of my mental health and yet, here I am babysitting precious Baby Girl who just by virtue of the special little lady she is, makes my ovaries twitch and uterus kick and scream, “LORI, YOU COULD HAVE THIS!” in barren protest…[read more]