I had a dream the other night (I’ll make this brief: other people’s dreams are deadly boring) that I was in the waiting room of the OB/GYN. I was there to find out if I was pregnant. It doesn’t take a dream interpretation book to figure this out. I’ve weaned the twins, so this is the last month before I’m back on the Pill. My period is due any day now. I’ve been thinking of how funny it would be to get to the month before going back on the Pill–and then be pregnant that month. Not so much funny-ha-ha as funny-oh-my-god, but still.

I think I am in real trouble: I have four children–FOUR–and I still want another baby. I keep thinking about pregnancy and baby names and finding out what the new child is like. This does not bode well for future happiness. I hope I’m not going to be like my mom: in her 50s, through menopause, married to a man who’s been snipped for over 30 years, and STILL hoping every month that she’s pregnant. I’m doomed, aren’t I? Genetically doomed.

I’ve even thought, “Well, maybe we should have another.” It really hardly seems to matter at this point: one more baby? We’re already inundated with them, we’d hardly notice the difference. There’s room in the minivan for another car seat. I still have time before I turn Scary 35. But then where does it end? I always thought my mom’s problem was that she had only two children when she wanted to have three, but if she’d had three or even four I’ll bet she’d still have wanted more. Evidently we’re hardwired for endless baby production.

About the population explosion–I know, I know, don’t even tell me. Tell my ESTROGEN.