Last week I ended up writing a rather scathing post about people who offer unsolicited advice about my sex life (for if you tell me to wait to have a baby aren’t you essentially implying I should be managing my private affairs a certain way?)

I didn’t sit down with the intent to write a post like that, but as I took the time to explore my feelings and experiences in relation to the situation the angrier I became. Now I suspect many of you are wondering what’s keeping me from holding that sweet little baby in my arms?

I’m happy to say it isn’t the dreaded “I” word: Infertility, as we haven’t yet moved to the stage where we would know.

It isn’t That Husband either. When we were dating he said kids in 3-5 years, and I said 1-2. Then we got married and I said “Now” and he said “Why?” and I said “Because I believe my purpose in life is to be a mother.” And he said “Okay, we will do this together.” I love my husband.

The stumbling bock in my road to motherhood? Me. Yes, I’m the only thing standing between my own desires. How ridiculous is that? I feel stupid typing it out, because once you hear what it would take for me to become impregnated you will shake your head and think to yourself “That Wife is an idiot. I only suspected it until now. Now she has confirmed it.”

To have a child, all I have to do is prove to That Husband that I will finish school. I don’t even have to finish. I just have to prove that I will finish. I will admit that the terms we agreed upon are a little abstract, but this open ended agreement means I could have a baby in my belly by March if I wanted. And I do want to, except apparently not enough to actually STUDY. What is wrong with me?

I’m such an idiot. I’ve tried all kinds of systems to motivate myself, but these last 19 credits are haunting me. I hate them, and avoiding them is currently my method of choice. I did agree to let my friend Christiana hound me about my daily study habits, but I discovered today that all I need to do to avoid her is turn off Gchat. Christiana don’t be mad!

All of this means every morning I wake up and do the thing I hate most. I take the Pink Pill of Death. Why the Grim Reaper title? Because every morning I wake up with dreams of my imaginary baby. Sometimes it’s a boy, sometimes it’s a girl, always it has dark hair and light eyes (I realize how rare this is, but imaginary babies can look however you want them to). I check my phone, say my prayers, pee, and open the medicine cabinet to kill anew my baby dreams for the day.

It’s a vicious cycle, and sometimes it makes me want to crawl right back into bed again, but I know what everyone would say, “You are doing this to yourself.”

Goodbye January 29, 2009 baby. I would have called you Harvey.