No More Yoys

I have two wonderful sons.  I love them dearly.  They are stinky and messy and wild and gross and loud.

See every single other entry I've written about them.

I stroll them all over the place in our double-wide.  The general public always has something to say about our spectacle.  Some comments are nice, some are irritating. Here are a few of my favorite:

Are they twins?

What are you feeding those guys?

You have your hands full!

And, my most favorite and tonight's blog topic-

Are you going to go for a girl?


This question is so personal and so startling coming from a complete stranger.  Sometimes I want to shoot back - are you?  Even if it is a man.

So, in order to avoid answering this question a million times over my few remaining years of fertility, I am going to let all of my readers know the answer.

It is no.

And I mean, hell no.

I'm partially writing this so I can look back in five years when the Yoys are in school full-time and I have this nagging ache for a baby, which I no doubt will have, and remember why the Yoys will remain a four person household.

I'm also writing this so the strangers at the mall, who, no doubt, are avid readers, will also stop asking.

First of all, my pregnancies were not all that fun.***

Insomniac.  Fire-breathing dragon.  Frequent restroomer. Dry-heaver.  Sciatica-cripple.  Day-time narcoleptic. Snorer (this one is for Mr. Yoy).  All good descriptions of myself during those nine months.

Even if I was guaranteed an amazing, symptom-free pregnancy there is then the haze that you live in for the first four months post birth.

I had a c-section with Little E.  All I have to do is look down to my abdomen to remember the pain that accompanied that surgery.  In my sleep, I would forget I had just been sliced open.  I'd hear Little E crying for me at 3 am.  I'd go leaping out of bed and wince in pain.

The three day intervals between showers, it took everything in me to muster up the energy to get cleaned up and dressed.  The weight of constant exhaustion on my eyelids,  they were permanently flying at half-mast.

My doctor said it best when she reported to me at Big E's one month checkup that she wished all babies were born as four month-olds.  Me, too, Dr. Yoy, me, too.

Shopping trips are the worst for me.  I let my eyes wander over to the other side of the Gymboree store.  I enviously scan the pink tutus and tights and little jean skirts, and I feel it.  I may even shed a tear or two if it is a really cute outfit, but it ends there.

Mr. Yoy always reminds me there is no guarantee.  We could end up with three sons.  Or four sons (You can't rule out twins in my case.  See my Mom and Uncle).  That is enough to snap me back to reality.

I almost forgot the most important reason.  We can't afford anymore.  I know this is so cliche, but kids are so expensive.  What in the world?

Anyway, I find solace in my adorable little niece who is a few weeks older than Little E.  When I have this uncontrollable urge to buy something pink, she is almost always the beneficiary.

And I know she'll take care of me when I'm old and gray and my sons won't return my phone calls (my greatest fear).  Especially after I bribe her with the 47 Madame Alexander dolls currently residing in my guest bedroom closet.

***Exceptions include amazing hair, publix cake for breakfast, maternity pants, and unlimited Willy's.

Little Yoysers