I didn't pursue my teaching license along with either of my degrees in English. (I did teach sixth grade in 2005-2006, and it was the second most painful experience of my life: much worse, for me, than divorce. I'll blog about it, some day.) I've never taught children's Sunday school. Aside from making some snacks, I've never helped with Vacation Bible School. I drop my kids off in the church nursery every week and
Don't get me wrong: I love the children in my life. The ones to whom I've given birth are ridiculously spoiled. The baby will be nine months old in a week, and she sleeps with me. (Shhh: nothing you say is going to change a thing, so preserve your energy.) I love my nephews and nieces, my friends' children, and I think of Stacey Michelle and Kimmie Christine (both of whom are grown, now), and I promise you: I have the kid-loving gene.
But--even though I'm an extreme extrovert--kids make me feel out of sorts. To be more specific, I feel uncomfortable dealing with the behavioral issues of children. I think myself pretty responsible in addressing my children's bad behavior, but I very often feel inadequate and ill-equipped. And I feel even moreso when it comes to other people's children.
Anyway, I said all that to turn around and say: I'm starting to feel like someone's missing from our family. You can't imagine the hilarity with which I write that. I have an eleven-year-old with newfound attitude, a two-year-old who's been eaten up with attitude since she was in the womb, and a not-quite-nine-month-old baby whom I've spoiled beyond belief. I have fleas in my carpet, I'm giving away my cat because I can't deal, everything's a disorganized mess, and I really think I want one more baby.
I'm laughing as I type this. Am I just hearing the ticking of my biological clock? Have I been possessed by the Octomom? Aye ya ya. I think I'll sign off, now, and go to bed. With the baby.