The absurdity of something I've been doing lately, and the pseudo-conclusion I've come to, has just struck me.
First, a little background...
A couple of weeks ago, at knit night, there was this woman, chatty, engaging, who looked familiar. Since I am rather dense, I thought she'd attended several months ago, and I simply couldn't remember her name.
Hell, I can't remember my own name half the time.
Well, this woman knew me, and it wasn't from knit night - we were childhood playmates, and she is a person that I drifted away from, 'cuz that happens, but I always knew that if I tried hard enough, I could track her down. Don't know why I didn't try... just didn't.
Needless to say, I'm more than a little bit thrilled that she tracked me down and got in touch.
Now this person (Hi, HBACmama!) is very much a home-and-natural birth advocate. So, I've been reading everything I can get my cyber-hands on in order to have a meaningful conversation.
I've been reading about breastfeeding, the high rate of caesarian sections, home births, co-sleeping, pacifiers and just about everything else you can imagine.
The conclusion? It's a messy, horrible business. Mighty inconvenient, too, giving your body over to another human being for nine months, and then spending the next couple decades being willing to throw yourself in front of a train to protect said human being.
But somehow, it doesn't seem so bad. Could this possibly mean that I want to have a baby?
Somehow, that is a truly frightening idea, but strangely attractive. How sick is that?