It may not surprise anyone to learn my wife and I love making babies. In fact, if a few things were different, for example if I was closer to Tracey’s age, we’d probably have kept going and made ten. After all, everything is metric these days.
Only a few months ago, Tracey was cuddling a baby when she looked up at me and gave me that look.
“Oh, I’m feeling clucky,” she cood at me.
“You can’t feel clucky when you’re holding your own baby, Tracey,” I told her. “That just doesn’t make sense.” Although to be honest I have no evidence either way. Still I persevered. “It’s like seeing your own Ferrari parked in your driveway and thinking, ‘Oh, I want a Ferrari’.”
“Well, maybe I want two cars.”
“Or in this case, eight,” I reminded her. “You really want eight Ferraris? They cost a lot to maintain, you know.”
It’s fun to joke, isn’t it? Well life decided to join in the laugh today.
“I’m sooooo tired,” Tracey told me this afternoon. “I’m going to bed straight after dinner.”
“You went to bed early last night too,” I reminded her. “You slept for twelve hours. Are you sick?”
“No, just tired.”
We looked at each other.
“You don’t think…” I trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Tracey’s bottom jaw dropped and her expression changed to one I suspect would be more suited to defendant who’s just lost a case for manslaughter and realizes they won’t be eating fast food for a long, long time. Then her face changed again as her thoughts went to a calmer place. “Not possible,” she said confidently. “You’re neutered. I’m back at work. My photography business is starting to take off. I have a brain again. I mean, what are the chances we’d fall just as things are coming good?”
I pointed to the five month old in her arms. “About the same as last time.” When we conceived Miss0 I’d had a vasectomy, Tracey started her photography business and we were done. In fact we didn’t plan any of the last four – we would never be asked to speak at a family planning convention.
I shouldn’t have said anything. Suddenly my wife was back on death row. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”
“No, you’re right. It’s not possible,” I said. But if wishes were horses we’d have a herd of Ferraris in the driveway.
Tracey quickly summed up the situation. “Shit,” she said. Then her face brightened again. “Maybe I’ve got glandular fever,” she suggested. “Or Ross River or something like that.”
“Jeez, I hope so,” I said eagerly.
A quick sprint to the local shops and a gallon of water later, I was pacing outside our bathroom waiting for the result.
“Anything?” I called through the door.
“Not yet,” said Tracey. “Don’t rush me.”
“And don’t you mess with me,” I told her. “I want a straight answer. I can take it,” I lied.
A few minutes later we had our answer. Tracey flung open the door and wrapped her arms around my neck.
“Congratulations!” she yelled. “I must be sick.”
Well, thank goodness for that.