Dear Hormones…


Dear Hormones…

There’s a major disconnect between you, my brain and my body. I’m talking about a Chernobyl meltdown caliber of dysfunction.

Can we talk about the number seven? Seven is an interesting number. It’s a pretty small quantity if we’re talking about how many spoons might reside in a kitchen, but it’s an overwhelmingly large number when applied to children in a family.

Seven is huge.

We only have five at home now, but the nest is by no means empty and, in fact, it doesn’t even feel any more spacious.

Biology (and my mother) told me this would happen, but I never thought it would happen to me…

My body wants a baby.

A new baby. One that grows inside me. A living piece of evidence that embodies proof of the love Mr. Wright and I share.

People smile at our blended family and say, “You have ‘yours, mine and ours.’” We each brought our respective biological children to the table, and adopted some more, so it’s really more like “yours, mine and theirs.” I love all my children with the same depth and passion, so… what’s the big deal?

Mr. Wright had a vasectomy and I had cervical cancer, so biological children between us isn’t a reality—well, not a likely one, anyway. I don’t even know if my cervix is strong enough to get through a pregnancy. Until now, I’ve been satisfied, and my aging body has been grateful its limits haven’t been tested.

So, what’s up with you, Hormones? Didn’t you get the memo? I’m definitely firing my secretary.

Picture it: Post-intimacy afterglow. (Actually, please—don’t picture it.) Mr. Wright is alarmed by his sobbing, hysterical bride. “What’s wrong?” he asks, freaking out just a little bit.

“It’s such a waste,” I hiccup between sobs. “All this love, and we’ll never have any children together.”

To his credit, he tries not to laugh. He fails. “Honey, we have seven children together! What are you talking about?”

I cry for two days. Then, I start my period and bawl some more. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but… I’m irrationally hoping to be “late.” I practically attack Mr. Wright every time he walks through the door. (Actually, he rather enjoys that part.)

He tries for days to soothe me. Finally, he asks, “If I got my vasectomy reversed, would you want to try?” Mmmhmm, I nod through tears. “Okay. If that’s what you want, I want it, too. I can’t wait to have a baby with you…” Days of work pile up on my desk while I perform Google searches such as “vasectomy reversal success rate” and “pregnancy risks after cervical cancer.”

Today, he nuzzles up to me, slipping a hand around my belly. “Next year, there will be a baby in here,” he smiles.

Oh.  His words make me feel… nothing. No aching, no longing, no foaming at the uterus… nothing. “I think I’m over it,” I shrug.

I think it’s time for us to take a break, Hormones. This volatile relationship is seriously interfering with my productivity (and lack thereof).

Mercurially Yours,



About Christina-Marie

Christina-Marie Wright is the manic mother of seven, wife to a real estate professional and political activist (the same guy—Mr. Wright) and author of the hilarious "Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House," available on Amazon. After giving birth to one child—just to see if her body worked—she picked up four full-time stepchildren and two adopted children along her zigzagging path to (near) self-actualization. Her family isn’t “blended.” It’s “pureed.” That frothy blend of maternal mayhem includes: Princess (stepdaughter, b. 1990, Veterinary Medicine student), The Dude (stepson, b. 1993, employed, living on his own), Pockets (bio son, b. 1994, attending college), Pepper (stepdaughter, b. 1996, high school diva), GirlWonder (stepdaughter, b. 1997, middle school over-achiever), Curlytop (adopted daughter, b. 2005, special needs child allergic to Red Dye 40) and Snugglebug (adopted daughter, b. 2006, diagnosed Sensory Processing Dysfunction, also allergic to Red Dye 40). A vegan for over 15 years, and a Washington state native, Christina-Marie makes her home along the Columbia River, and the view from her living room is better than yours. She's also a sexual health consultant, and absolutely capable of teaching you how to find your G-spot. You can find Christina-Marie hanging out with a snifter of Southern Comfort at and

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