Confession:

RH

Let's face it, babies are nice.

The confirmed DINKs of the world (that's "dual income no kids," for those of you who don't know any of them) are quick to pass judgement on babies.  They scream, they poop, they're expensive, they make outrageous demands on you, and they are a commitment.  You don't just have a baby for a year or two to see if it works out.  There's no going back from having one.

And so those no-baby folks have plenty of reasons to fall back on for why they will never have kids.

And all of those reasons are valid.

But aside from that?  Babies?  They're nice.  

There's nothing quite like holding a sleeping baby.  And there's nothing quite like being the reason that the baby is asleep.

The act of comforting an infant is profoundly empowering.  And there are so few things in life that are simultaneously empowering and pleasant.  Usually, empowering activities come with an element of danger.  Climbing a mountain is empowering.  Firing a gun is empowering.

Gently rocking a baby to sleep?

You feel like a freakin' rock star.  Like a God.  You are all that is great in humanity.

And all that you did was make the baby sleep.  Or keep the baby asleep.

When you're holding a sleeping baby, you are the embodiment of human goodness.  You are more than that, you are the embodiment of potential.  What you look like, where you came from, any conglomeration of details about who you are... they are meaningless.  You're just a safe, friendly, and somehow beloved creature.

For this reason, babies are addictive.

Really, really addictive.

Which means that baby fever is a disease.  Those who suffer from it are victims of an addiction- and may in fact require help.

And no victims of this affliction are more pitiable than new mothers.

Sleeping

Today I can stand before you and I can say...

"Hello.  My name is Lea, and I have baby fever."

I am one month into my renewed adventures in motherhood, and I can admit it.

Here I am, having slept maybe a scattered six hours in the last twenty four (hooray growth spurt!), roasting in my post-surgical garments in the 90 plus temps, still half brain dead from being pregnant, and with my hips slowly returning to their pre-pregnancy and painless alignment (I hope), and I can tell you this...

I am so not done with babies.

This baby?  She's a month old today.  She's bright eyed and beautiful, on the verge of smiling (she gets her lips to twitch smile-ishly, and you can see in her eyes how much she likes you), she likes nothing more than watching her big sisters play.  Well, except eating.

I've got nine pounds of cute and cuddly that routinely screams at me and requires me to clean up its feces.  And having two nearly-three-year-olds, I know that this keeps going.  For a long time.  Forever.

And yet?

I look at her sleeping, her long torso and her little froggy legs, her tiny fingers curled around mine...

And I want more babies.

Not today.  Not while this one is so pleasantly baby-ish.  Not while all she wants is to be snuggled and held and carried around our suddenly fascinating home.

But the fever...

...it has begun.

Perhaps it's made worse by knowing that now this baby factory has shut its doors.  Perhaps it's compounded by how much the big sisters like their new baby sister.  Perhaps it's due entirely to the fact that I've had round the clock help for this entire month.

Really, this should be enough for anyone.

Whatever the reason, it's there.

The burning urge to get more babies into my clutches.

Oh, I can wait.  I can wait.  But it's always going to be there.

Even if you haven't had a drink in ten years, you're still an alcoholic.

And if you haven't had a baby in a decade...

The sickness may still remain.

Waiting to strike.

My name is Lea, and I have baby fever.

May God have mercy on my soul.