One of my neighbors is trying to get pregnant again. This would be her third kid, if/when it happens, and every time I think about a third kid, I get hives.
I love using this phrase, “I get hives,” because it is so pleasingly dramatic. I don’t actually get hives, I just get metaphoric hives, as the bees inside my anxiety begin buzzing around and maybe build actual figurative hives, one hive per sub-topic about a third child that I fear would be the death of my mental health and well-being and most certainly the devastating demise of my pelvic floor.
But my neighbor is younger than me, by only a few yet seemingly critical years. I hate that I think this and I hate that it feels true, even though I am pretty sure newer science says it’s not that big of a deal.
I hate that every time I hear that a person close to me is pregnant [again], my first thought is mostly “yikes, why would they want to do that,” which I do always attempt to reframe into “good for her, not for me,” before of cours…
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