I was sifting through old photos … and found this.
And then I found this.
Then I retreated to the bathroom, stared into the mirror and gave myself a lecture. It was hard to hear over my quaking ovaries and their hormonal uproar. I was stern. I was nice. I was cruel. I was tenderhearted … didn’t matter the tactic. I still had a powerful yearning for another tiny little person to fill my arms.
Luckily about that time a Texas tornado pushed through the door.
Or maybe it was a Tasmanian devil.
I can’t be sure.
It sort of looked like this …
Except it was messier … louder … stinkier … and more impudent.
Which was good. Very good.
My dreams of gestating for another nine months quickly vanished when faced with the results of such a decision.
I grabbed a towel, bar of soap and the impertinent piglet in my midst, and set to scrubbing.
Later, I came across this photo.
And came to the black-and-white truth of the matter.
Things are lovely, just the way they are.