My husband and I decided to procreate. Almost through the first trimester, the only evidence is the rubber band holding my pants up and my huge rack. I feel pretty good, surprisingly.
For the most part, our friends are excited. Several of them have said something like, "omigosh you guys are going to be the most hilarious parents," which I take to mean, "omigosh it's going to be hilarious watching you try to raise a child." Several of them, upon hearing the news, immediately attempted to touch my belly, to which I say they must now touch Mitch's balls. And still, several others, have been all like, why?
Honestly, I don't know exactly how to justify or articulate it. We're both in grad school; I'm not working full time; we have a brood of animals to care for; and we have a million extracurriculars and a busy, fulfilling social life. We're really happy right now. Why would we go mucking that up? But I think this is precisely the environment into which a baby should be born. Our material lives are simple, and we have an amazing community of people who will help raise this child. Our marriage is stable and supportive, albeit boring. We'll always be busy; it's not in my nature to sit still. It will never be the perfect time to have a baby, ever. They're not here for our convenience. So I suppose now was as good a time as any, before my ovaries shrivel up and fall off.