Not protesting too much, I promise

The visitors have gone and my stress levels have plummetted accordingly. I have a cold, Mabel is having a new! improved! sleep regression, and I think Monkey may be sickening for something because he just voluntarily took a nap. Also, B has signed up for another marathon in a month's time. Business as usual, then.

Elsewhere on the Internets, the lovely and very amusing Amalah is pregnant with her third. This news has sent me into a flurry of ambivalence. You know the way, when you're pregnant, you are especially aware of all the people, locally and in the media, who are also pregnant, and count their babies as somehow connected to yours? So my Monkey is a close relation to such exalted socialites as Suri Cruise, Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, Violet Affleck, and Gwen Stefani's son Kingston, as well as the kids of various bloggers I was reading while pregnant. Amy's Noah is about six months older than Monkey, and her Ezra is just one month older than Mabel, so I feel that we've kept pace pretty nicely, and it's always fun to read about people whose kids are the same age as yours.

But now. Number three, eh? In truth, the only urge I feel to rush out (I mean, upstairs) and get myself knocked up again to keep up is just to say, "Look, I could totally do it too, if I wanted to." I think that's why I keep putting off doing the grown-up thing and getting the Mirena (apart from the fact that I don't have prescription coverage and I somehow don't think I can get B's doctor to prescribe it for him, even though it's really for both of us; I'm sure that's discrimination); something in me wants to retain the - at least theoretical - ability to get pregnant again at the drop of a hat/[insert your own hi-larious alternative article of clothing here], even if I never redeem my chips for the big prize (but you have to buy your own mini-van).