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Not Only Baby Crazy

Close-up of a woman smiling with her son
Photograph by Getty Images/WIN-Initiative RM

Hi everyone! I'm new here so I thought I would take just a moment to introduce myself. I'm Lauren. I'm 29 years old and married to my pre-school enemy turned high school sweetheart, Ryan. I overuse ellipses and parentheses. And I fervidly, passionately want a baby. My husband says I'm baby crazy. He is only somewhat correct.

First a little bit of background information. I am the oldest of five children, four lady babies and then at last, a tiny gentleman baby. I was 9 when my brother Davis was born, and the first time I ever laid eyes on him, I was a goner. That little blue bundle of joy—with his bump of a nose, minuscule curlicue ears and the sharpest fingernails of all time—had me firmly in his grasp. I was suddenly and eternally baby crazy.

Over the amazing years that followed I loved my brother like he was my own (except for when he was crying or had a dirty diaper, and that one time he had the flu really badly). I took him to swimming lessons and then Dunkin' Donuts, basketball camp and then Dunkin' Donuts, guitar lessons and then, well ... you get the idea. He was my little brother Davis, and I was his big sister Wae-Wae. (He could not pronounce his L's so he called me by my middle name, Rae. It turns out he also could not pronounce his R's.)

Eventually, Davis got older, as babies tend to do, and started spending more and more time with friends his own age. Plus, I had gotten a job and a retainer and glasses and, in time—after I lost the retainer and the glasses—a couple of boyfriends. I was suddenly boy crazy.

For the next couple of years, my life was a whirl of dances and Science Olympiad tournaments, movie dates and Scholastic Bowl tournaments, first kisses and, well ... you get the idea. Then senior year of high school, in fourth period AP statistics there came Ryan. As a 17-year-old, I was hopeful that he sat next to me every day due to secret love. But in retrospect, he maybe just wanted homework answers. Whatever the case, two months into senior year, Ryan made me a bet that I would go to prom with another boy in our class. A boy that was a year younger than me and spent his weekends constructing a laminated, floating Monopoly game so that he and his friends could get together on the weekends, slip on their bathing suits, slide into a steaming hot tub and, you know, play Monopoly. And sure, that boy and I did date for a while and he sometimes left me flowers in my locker and I sometimes (all the time) had a great time playing hot tub Monopoly, but Ryan lost that bet in the end. Because two months after he made it, he held my hand for the first time. All at once, I was suddenly Ryan crazy.

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And that is something that has never changed. Sure we've had our downs (like when I ignored the "Do Not Feed the Feral Cats" signs on our honeymoon and then one of the cats started following me around and eventually attacked Ryan when he tried to kiss me), and our extreme downs (like when we broke up for a period of time in college). But they have been more than overshadowed by our ups (like when we visited The Wizarding World of Harry Potter and bought Butter Beer and went back to our hotel and spiked the Butter Beer and watched increasingly hilarious episodes of Scrubs all night), and our extreme ups (our *sigh* wedding). I am head-over-heels for my silly, brilliant, passionate husband.

Because suddenly I am not just baby crazy or boy crazy or Ryan crazy, I am having-a-baby-with-Ryan-crazy.

All of that brings us to today. Ryan and I have been married for a little bit over two years, and I find myself increasingly desperate to start a family. He is not quite sure that he's ready. He says I'm baby crazy. Like I said before, though, he is only somewhat correct. Yes, I want my own little bundle of joy and yes I am probably a bit crazy about it, with how often I bring it up and with how the latest Cheerios commercial makes me ugly cry because OH MY GOD chubby baby fingers. But the fact that right now I am at the point that my wanting a baby is almost veering toward me needing a baby is not just about hormones and being almost 30 and all that stuff; it is also about Ryan. Because, suddenly, I am not just baby crazy or boy crazy or Ryan crazy, I am having-a-baby-with-Ryan-crazy.

I look at my wonderful husband and see his compassion and his sarcastic eyebrows and the way his eyes light up when anyone mentions the stock market or fantasy football (or Mila Kunis, but that is a story for a different day), and I hear his ridiculously contagious laugh and the silence after I've asked him a serious question that means he is really thinking about what he wants to say, and I feel how much he loves me. When he still—after 11 years together—holds my hand and I think, I don't just want any baby, I want his baby. I want our baby. And all of the stretch marks and dirty diapers and sharp fingernails and LOVE that comes with it.

He is slowly coming around to the idea.

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