Photo: Katie Dupuis
Dear Biological Clock,
I have this picture of you in my head, with your pencil skirt and high heels, your hair coiffed and your makeup perfect. You?re a prim and proper battleaxe with an agenda. For others, maybe you look like the grim reaper, but for me, you?re just a horrible nag who won?t shut up. Even when I do what you ask me to do.
It started when I was 27 and newly married. The first of my friends were having babies and, while I knew I wanted to spend some time with my husband before starting a family, you wouldn?t leave me alone. Pregnant women gave me butterflies. New babies turned me into a pile of mush. Just one whiff of that new-baby scent and I was picking out names.  I imagined way too often what an amalgam of me and Blaine would look like. It was barely a year into our marriage before I started charting cycles (well, non-cycles for me) and less than 18 months before I sought out a fertility clinic, knowing PCOS could make things challenging for us. Relief, along with HCG and prenatal vitamins, coursed through me when the test was positive. Biological Clock, you were happy then?for all of five minutes. You left me alone for the duration of the pregnancy, and you watched on contentedly when I held newborn Sophie in my arms. But you couldn?t even give me a friggin? week before you started nagging again. She didn?t even weigh ten pounds yet when I said to Blaine, ?I feel like I have to do this at least once more.? Seriously, Clock"!
Eigh...