463048571I love my pediatrician. She is a smart French lady with an air of classy kindness, and once, before I had insurance, she let me pay her in hugs. Well, she billed me later, but she handled my embarrassed tears with kindness at the time. I love her so much that even though I moved out of the city years ago, I still make the hellish drive to see her twice a year. Still, she does this thing that annoys the crap out of me where at the end of each visit, she asks me in desperate Franglish when I’ll be giving my daughter a sibling, because kids need siblings.

To be fair, she’s not the only one. There is a time in every woman’s life, I’ve learned, between the ages of twentysomething and thirtysomething when everyone is overly concerned with said woman’s lady parts, and as soon as you pop out one, you’ll be getting a million personal questions. Everyone from the grocery checkout lady to your fourth cousin twice removed wants to know what’s going on down there, so you might as well submit to a pelvic exam in Randall’s and Skype in all of the interested parties.

Since I’ve already had a baby, and later married the man I was living in sin with, the question du jour seems to be along the lines of when I will be adding more little tax deductions to our family. The answer is never. Never ever, and I’m thinking of tattooing the reasons why onto my face so that I can stop fielding this question.

  1. I like my sleep.


This is my number one hugest reason why I’m not anxious to purchase Palmer’s cocoa butter and those weird breast pad things. I like sleeping. I love it so much; I would marry it, have one baby with it, and then constantly deflect questions about having more babies with it. I feel like at seven, my kid has just started sleeping consistently through the night, and that’s when she’s not sick or having nightmares. The very idea of starting from day one with a screaming baby gives me a case of the vapors so bad that only wine will calm the anxiety. A lot of wine. Thankfully, I can sleep it off.

  1. I hate my siblings.


Okay, this isn’t entirely fair, or even true. I am estranged from one sibling, one rarely has a phone hooked up, and I am in fact quite close to my third sibling. I don’t actually hate any of them. Still, people constantly remind me that because they loved their siblings so much, every person in the world should have a few. Here’s the thing: you may be lying to yourself and it’s possible you’re viewing the past through rose colored specs. My brother and I only became close as adults. That guy was a total douche as a kid, and I bet he would say the same about me. There’s a little truth to the clichéd bumper sticker wisdom that says that your family isn’t necessarily the people you’re related to; right now I’ve only netted relationships with 1/3 of my siblings. That’s not a good average.