Phantom cluck

I don't know what variety of hormone-induced crazy I was smoking yesterday, but I spent most of the day being yelled at by my subconscious, counting on my fingers, and thinking that my children would profit greatly in terms of added independence if given a little more parental neglect by way of an extra sibling. My subconscious had conspired with my body to demand that I get pregant again, right away, and to know why, indeed had I not already had another baby. At one point I found myself asking, "Really, what's another two years of my life when balanced against the opportunity of a whole new person?" That's when I knew I was in big trouble.

Luckily, this morning I woke up to find that the inner monologue had dimmed to a faint whisper and the demanding gremlins had slunk back to their lair, perhaps for another month. As we lazed in Sunday-morning fashion in front of the TV, I considered my lap - fully occupied by two squirming, giggling monsters; recalled my sleep - disturbed, as usual, by one toddler; and looked forward with a sense of relief to the possibility (not the certainty, as nothing in this life, especially contraception, is certain) of a modicum of freedom in the months to come.

And then I finished the choc-choc-chip cookies.