The Facts and Fixes of Life

Lately our Cutiepie has been preoccupied with acquiring a baby sibling.

Oh, but it ain’t happening.

There are a few of media culprits, but I blame Katie Perry and Charlie of Two and a Half Men. Thanks to them, 6yo Cutiepie knows Mommy and Daddy must “do it” in order to add a baby to our brood.

Oh, but it ain’t happening.

Her campaign for a baby sibling is strong, and while I am astonished—and scared—by her level of knowledge, I am amused at her persistence.

“Please mommy! Can you and Daddy do it? Please!”

We’re too old.

“No you’re not! Please, just go lay down with him and say you want a baby! I think that is all you have to do! I want a baby .”

For heaven’s sake, if only she were asking me to jump on the trampoline or run the Dublin Marathon naked, she’d win a puppy. Seriously, I love her with every ounce of my being, I’d do it. I would. She is so passionate, I so want to give her that baby.

Oh, but it ain’t happening.

“I promise! Babydoll and I will mind the baby! We will! And you know that pain? Like that woman screaming on the TV when she was given her baby?
Well, that will go away. I promise!”

Thanks for the concern, but it’s not the pain that scares me. It’s the added 12-year sentence labour of love. Something that can’t be easily explained to Cutiepie.

While I want to bottle her endless love, bubbling enthusiasm and innocent naiveté, I can’t honestly say I’d want to repeat it all with another babe. Which is why I’m writing this from my hospital bed in Dublin. How is it that kids have that magical ability of timing and intuitiveness that is hidden even from them? While Cutiepie has been marching for maternity, I’ve been fearing the very same nature of process. Our means of contraception—a surgically- planted cervix coil—is overdue for replacement. Despite my darling 6yo, the procedure was scheduled so she could not possibly have her way. Or rather, so I can count on golden years, not tough years ahead.

On the way to the hospital this morning, at 6 o’dark in the morning, my heart broke as Cutiepie asked why does Mommy have to go to the hospital? (We are winging it without an au pair. Be kind to your supporting family who may serve as minders.)

Only time will heal my broken heart and her denied request. She remains on my mind in this maternity ward, where ironically, I recover from the surgery that will ensure that I not return to this very same place, in which, I’d be ‘given’ a baby.

Cause, oh, that ain’t happening.

As I prepare to be discharged, Kevin and I plan our dinner with the girls. For a treat we are headed to Cortina, the latest, greatest Irish find of ours: a Mexican restaurant not too far from home. As I wonder if the tacos and burritos will be enough to preoccupy Cutiepie’s inquisitive nature and her adoring pleas, the nurse comes to sign me out.

“Will you be needing a doctor’s note to excuse you?” The nurse asks.

Yes, please! And be sure to address it to ‘Cutiepie’.