When I have a third baby--which God willing will be NEVER--I want it to be just like the movies.
I want to present my pregnancy test in a little wrapped box to my 6"3, 170 lb husband with a full head of shaggy brown hair, and watch as he opens it, the joy slowly registering on his face as he leaps to embrace me. None of this sitting on the toilet, staring at a stick in disbelief, asking myself how this happened, and picturing another wailing infant and a year of punishing, Guantanamo Bay CIA interrogation-torture tactic level sleeplessness. No instantly thinking of this pregnancy as a metaphor for Candy Land, where you draw that Grandma Nut card that sends you all the way back to the beginning of the board right when you're almost at the Candy Castle.
Of course, we will fast forward through that whole first part where I'm puking and want to eat nothing but green olives and chocolate almond milk. Those 14 weeks where people keep staring, wondering if I'm just getting really fat all of a sudden, will go by in a flash.
Because you never see that part.
Nope. I'll skip right to the part where I'm painting a gigantic nursery a soft shade of gender-neutral yellow (since in the movies, no one ever gets that chromosomal test where they know the baby's sex while it's still indistinguishable from a tadpole, because they're a zillion years old and could be carrying Rosemary's Devil Baby and kinda want to know it). No, in the movies they're always SURPRISED!
I want to stand on a step stool with my hair in a bandanna and have my gorgeous husband come up and embrace me from behind. Then we dissolve into a fit of giggles and begin painting each other's noses with stray brushes.
When the baby finally comes, there will be no scheduled C-section and arranging for child care of my other spawn. No sirree Bob. There will be a dramatic and feminine gasp, as I turn (again to my hottie husband), clutch my abdomen, and say "Honey! I think it's time!"
And he will rush around frantically gathering our belongings as we head for the hospital.
Then I will fast forward to exactly ten seconds of screaming while I clutch his hand and a nurse's hand, and at second number 9.5, the nurse will hand me a seven month-old infant, someone will announce triumphantly that it's a boy/girl, and place it completely free of blood and gore on my crispy light blue hospital gown as I weep with joy and my husband brushes a tendril of damp hair away from my forehead.
Cut to me sitting up in the hospital bed cradling the aforementioned sleeping seven month-old infant looking like I was never pregnant a day in my life.
Yep. That's what my next pregnancy will be like. Just like the movies.