I have a major problem.
It’s called the baby fever: symptoms include oohing, ah-ing and cooing over little squishy faces, and (gasp!) a strange desire to make one myself. And I don’t mean like with a Lego kit or something from Ikea.
It’s not logical, I know that (and to any eligible young men reading this: it’s a joke! Hahahaha. Haha. Ha.
It’s just a chronic condition brought on by my stupid job. I walk from piles and piles of wedding dresses on one side of the office (in preparation for Fairlady Bride) to stacks and stacks of baby magazines (for YourParenting.com) on the other. In-between the billowing white ball gowns and hundreds of pictures of adorable widdle fings, I say to the Heaven’s despairingly: ‘Is this some kind of sign?! Give me a freaking break!’
It’s not fair, really, especially since I should be feeling like a super rock star hero woman lady. Yesterday was my LAST DAY as an intern. Last day! As an intern! I’ve graduated into a new level of adulthood and tax paying (does the fun never stop?). Maybe it’s this step up the ladder of grown-up-osity that jolted the old biological clock. Or maybe it’s all the wedding dresses. Or maybe I need a new hobby.
I think I’ve managed to find a temporary cure for my crazy desire to use my womb as the equivalent of a microwave for the equivalent of a marshmallow (try microwaving a marshmallow: mind – BLOWN.)
I must confess that I was worried about my baby bunny’s future career (I think I’ll call her Maggie), until I stumbled across this site that makes these videos:
There’s quite a lucrative career in acting ahead for any ambitious rabbit. My little Maggie could star in a 30 second parody of any of my favourite films; it makes my heart pre-emptively proud. I can already imagine spamming everyone with the links on Facebook and Twitter.
And you know what, if not an actor, then how about a magician’s assistant? (though they seem to have a very specific body type in mind for that – how many spotted rabbits do you see getting pulled out of a hat? None, that’s what. They’re all skinny and white.)
Unlike her momma, Maggie could earn quite the pot of gold. Journalists, you see, are prone to poverty like athletes are prone to knee injuries or Julius Malema is prone to saying stupid stuff in front of a camera. But hey, no one becomes a journalist for the money.
The only thing I regret about becoming a bunny mommy? Getting a hold of one is so… tame. Just a visit to the pet shop. Not nearly as much fun making a human baby.
Ah well, I guess you can’t have it all…