Birth Control

For someone who, a few months ago, tearily packed away outgrown baby clothes, wailed that my youngest would soon be all grown up, and calculated the optimum time to conceive my fourth child, I now find myself scandalously content to remain a mother of three.

It’s not that I don’t love my kids, and I had plans for another, but by the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I’m tired. I’m tired every moment of every day. I wake up tired and I go to bed tired. I go to work tired and come home even more tired. There’s no period of being refreshed and energised, just brief intervals of being less tired than during the rest of my tiring day.

Unfortunately that’s not the only item on my mental list of Reasons to Stop at Three. I don’t wish to grumble too much because I know there are many people in the world who would love to swap their cross for mine; you, Dear Reader, must therefore infer the reasons I found myself crying in bed last night, wishing only for a padded cell and a soundproof screaming helmet like Jane Jetson’s.

And so it is that the prospect of my brood growing up and attaining some measure of independence and self-reliance is quite cheering to me in this serotonin-addled state. I suppose Mr. Lonie finds the possibility of another baby daunting, too, as he’s done the unthinkable and seriously considered letting some hairy-handed doctor fiddle with his goolies and slice bits out of them.

But do not let your hearts be troubled, squeams and vas deferens lovers! Perhaps the dreaded snip won’t be necessary after all. You see, the other night in bed, Mr. Lonie snuggled up to me in a way that might be construed as a precursor to further canoodling.

“Mm,” he said, his voice husky with what I like to think was desire but was more probably the result of loudly hawking up phlegm seconds before. “My groin is full of fungus.”

Ah, Jock Itch, that’s the stuff. Who needs vasectomies when abstinence will do?

The Other Man

I’ve cultivated a very close relationship with another man, and I can no longer hide it from Mr. Lonie. It’s been developing so slowly I didn’t even notice how intimate we had become until recently.

The realisation that we are practically inseparable hit me today. It was not a comforting thought, because the kind of closeness that we share is not a healthy one, particularly as I’m a married woman. The worst part is, Mr. Lonie knows. The man I married has discovered I let him down and I let myself down, yet he still loves me.

It’s time to put a stop to it – it’s time to say goodbye. As painful and as difficult as parting with him will be, I have to do it. There’s just not enough room in a marriage bed for me, Mr. Lonie and Mr. Hugh Jarce.

My Daughter the Heretic

“Everyone has nostrils except Jesus.”

I see I’ve got a lot of work to do before Miss Lonie starts Catholic school next year.

Another Year Older, Another Year More Horrifying

With age comes wisdom and acceptance of the inevitabilities of life. I therefore knew my endeavour was unlikely to succeed, but made a brave attempt anyway. Unfortunately my plan to draw the poison of vitriolic thoughts and words before they spilled out to an annoying colleague was not altogether successful. Though I filled sympathetic ears and wasted valuable internet space with what I hoped would be cathartic rantings, alas, I fear I may have injured the Delicate Flower’s feelings with an incautious (but justified) outburst in response to her disquieting behaviour. Ah well, just as other workmates have before me, I’ll make my forced apology and continue to work unaided while she takes more stress leave. Why meddle with the status quo?

Happily I’m not as highly-strung as some, or I’d be on stress leave too. Unlike certain others, I can usually take jests and remarks in the spirit they are offered, rather than stewing for several sleepless nights about the hidden meanings of punctuation in an email. Were it not for this trait shared by all normal, rational human beings, I would surely be a quivering wreck, and consequently unable to complete my riveting report on the latest synthetic sausage casings.

You see, now that I’ve celebrated another anniversary of my birth, I’m on the ‘wrong’ side of 30 (as my obstetrician so tactfully implied), and due to recent staff turnover I’m in the ‘old’ half of the team. I’m not rushing out for botox and collagen just yet, but I have been wistfully admiring the youthful skin of our new graduate and wondering if I appeared that impossibly young when I started at the department.

The other day, I was laughing with one of the boys (five years younger than I, but it may as well be ten. Egad! He’s never heard of Monkey Magic or The Goodies!) over an amusing anecdote he was telling about being set up with an eager girl.

“So why didn’t you like her?” I asked. “She was pretty, wasn’t she? And she has a good job?”

He stared incredulously at me. “I couldn’t go out with her!” he said, horrified. “She was as old as you!”

I briefly considered what the Delicate Flower would do were she confronted with such a remark, but immediately pooh-poohed her natural course of action. Why bother with the red-tape of stress leave when old-age retirement is just around the corner?