I am the youngest of three kids in my family and the last to get married. My mother is practically going to kick me down the aisle in October. But silly me, I thought that’s where the pressure ended. I was wrong.
This past weekend we had a family reunion at Lake Norman in North Carolina. My brother and his wife brought their adorable 2-year-old daughter Lauren (the first grandchild in the family) and my sister and her husband brought their newborn, Jacob. I love being an aunt. I get to coo at Jacob when he’s smiling and happy, and I get to pass him back to my sister when he’s got a big diaper blow-out or starts crying for no reason at all.
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Everyone in the family was oohing and ahhing over the darling new additions to our family and then began placing bets on when Fred and I were going to be popping out our own. “I’ve told everyone it will be in the first year of marriage,” my grandmother said to me, matter-of-factly.
My mouth dropped open. Whoa—slow down. My brother and his wife waited seven years to have a baby. My sister and her husband waited three. I thought now that they had kids, there would be no pressure on me and Fred, but it seems to be just the opposite.
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And I have to admit that being around the babies does get my ovaries working in overtime, much to my own surprise. I wonder if that’s why my grandmother predicted that. It was almost easier for my brother and his wife to wait so long, because we didn’t have any kids in the family to remind them of what they were missing out on or to give them baby fever.
That night Fred and I went to bed with visions of our own babies dancing in our heads. Then at 3 in the morning, Jacob started wailing with a vengeance and woke me right out of my peaceful slumber. Fred rolled over and mumbled, “It’s your turn to get up with the baby.” On second thought, I think babies can wait a few years after all.