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,

Christina-Marie

I come from a small town. (Cue John Mellencamp music.) It’s a great place to live, if you like majestic mountains, winning sports teams, and knowing your neighbors. If, however, you’re an outsider—and act like one—you’re liable to find yourself on the wrong side of an angry mob, and that’s just what happened to my local newspaper editor.

Mr. Editor has a habit of evoking strong emotions from the townspeople, and many of those emotions are not the warm and fuzzy variety. In fact, he’s downright despised by many for his editorial style, and his sheer lack of what proper folk refer to as “good manners.

So, after his most recent insensitive op-ed, the villagers rallied and organized a (Facebook) protest—which quickly escalated to personal attacks, finger-pointing, insults and threats of violence against Mr. Editor.

Lord, I love an underdog! Perhaps that’s why I inexplicably threw myself on the proverbial sword, taking a stand for the First Amendment. I fired off a letter to the publisher, threatening to rescind my contract and never contribute another column if he fired Mr. Editor. Then, I posted it publicly, for the entire (Facebook) world to see.

“Mom, how do you think this is going to work out for you?” asked Pockets.

Well, actually… I’m not really sure. What I do know is I witnessed a modern-day gladiator fight and, like Saint Telemachus, raced into the arena, crying, “Stop! Don’t you people see what you’re doing?!” knowing full well I may be stoned to (professional) death.

The response was swift. I lost followers. Protestors posted about me in groups and forums. Childhood friends blocked me. It was the equivalent of all my years of high school rejection, rolled into a few torturous hours.

I practiced great restraint in not fingering the man crying foul over ethics as the married Mr. Taylor, who’s asked me seven times for a date. I didn’t out the business owner yammering on about professionalism as Shirley Thompson, who’d clearly had more than a nip of gin last time I was in her store. I even held back when Mr. Baker, whose secretary mysteriously had to leave town, suggested someone delve into Mr. Editor’s past to find any dirty secrets buried there.

I deserve a medal, y’all.

True, I had to pry Mr. Wright off the ceiling when he found out what I’d done, as he was certain our businesses would be forever ruined, and we’d end up homeless. “Martyrdom does not pay well,” he reminded me.

But Pockets’s question brought it home. I realized, no matter what happens to my column, my livelihood, or my reputation, I was doing exactly what I want my kids to do when they see injustice in the world… Take a stand.

Surely, this winter when we’re huddled around a campfire under a bridge, eating beans out of a can, the kids will be proud of their mother. Right?

SOMETIME BEFORE SEPTEMBER 1: Make appointments for sports physicals and immunizations. Celebrate that a summer of sitting around the pool hasn’t resulted in muscular atrophy or brain-eating amoeba infestation. Shell out co-pays and pick up a bottle of wine on way home. Oh, and maybe think about registering Snugglebug for Kindergarten.

SEPTEMBER 1: High school student supplies shopping. Remember, at midnight or later, secondary students will, at some point, during the year, be expected to write something. They’ll need some paper to write on, and pens and pencils to write with. Maybe a binder to keep their writing in. Probably also some folders and whatnot. Make trip across town to all-night Walmart, where running into parents who are also freaking out and charging down the school supply aisles in inevitable. Watch out for speeding carts, driven by manic mothers and frustrated fathers. Purchase a bottle of wine, for good measure.

SEPTEMBER 2: High School Student Orientation Day. Meet the teachers, get signed off on sports registration, pay fees, pre-purchase annuals, get locker assignments, commiserate with fellow parents over the increase in ASB and sports fees. Leave with an empty wallet. Upon returning home, open the last bottle of wine in the kitchen, savoring, because it’ll be the last for at least a couple months. Open the pantry, make shopping list. Cross off everything but Top Ramen, which is the only thing the budget will now allow.

SEPTEMBER 3: Fall Sports Picture Day. Scrape up a bazillion dollars per athlete per sport for photos of said athletes looking cute and/or tough in their uniforms. Bemoan the fact that the Walmart portrait studio could do a comparable job for under twenty bucks. Wish for wine. Eye vintage bottle in wine rack. Resist temptation only because opening the bottle would mean dusting it off, first.

SEPTEMBER 4-5ish: Crap! I forgot to… register Snugglebug for Kindergarten. Complete application with a snifter of Southern Comfort, because dusting off wine bottles is too much work while hysterically scribbling out medical issues and allergies.

SEPTEMBER 5: Elementary School Open House. Meet more teachers. Completely embarrass and alienate self by obsessively emphasizing how said teachers need to understand my Sensory Processing Disorder students “don’t relate to the world at large as other kids do, and may need special accommodations when their environment becomes overwhelming.” Over. And. Over. Again. Begrudgingly deliver school supplies costing approximately the same as my first car.

SEPTEMBER 6: First Day of School. Sleep through alarm due to breaking down and opening bottle of vintage wine night before. Surely, the night before school starting is the “special occasion” we were saving it for, right? Wake in a dead panic, shake the kids awake. Dismiss the idea of a full, hot breakfast and send kids to bus stop with a baggie of dry cereal. Still in pajamas, deliver kids to respective schools after they miss their bus. Ignore amused looks from crossing guards. Return home, planning to start the life I’ve been promising, for years, to live “once all the kids are in school.” Take a nap, instead—because I can.

When we all flood into my in-laws’ condo for a week during the summer, we may or may not be pushing the limits of the fire code, but I trust that the half dozen or so firefighters in the family would alert us to any imminent danger.

I married into a really good family.

In any event, it’s a lot of bodies. A whole lot of bodies, representing nearly every age group from birth to seventy-something. The crowding is so great, it’s impossible not to rub elbows, hips and other assorted body parts with family members as everyone moves about. In fact, it’s pretty much like being in a mosh pit—

FOR A WEEK.

Meals are a free-for-all, and sleeping arrangements involve near-stacking of bodies. Everyone brings groceries, board games, blankets and sunscreen, and—for a few short days—we all live in commune-like coordinated chaos.

Bedrooms are allocated by hierarchy: Grandma and Grandpa first, followed closely by Nobel Peace Prize winners, Heisman trophy recipients and anyone who can produce an authenticated doctor’s note before bedtime. With an EMT and four or five nurses in the family, claiming an injury or illness will result in immediate medical treatment—with or without the patient’s consent, so a physician’s recommendation is not a guarantee of private sleeping quarters. Next in line are couples with newborns, which clearly explains why we keep adopting children.

Beds (if you can call a hide-a-bed an actual “bed”) are spoken for in order of age and gender—ladies first, if you please—and then the squabbling starts for overstuffed chairs and chaise lounges on the patio (which are perfectly fine in the summer heat, until the sprinklers come on at midnight). Remaining floor space is divided by a complicated algorithm which weighs out safety over convenience. Sleeping under the dining room table or hide-a-bed means a person is less likely to get stepped upon, but also less likely to have a successful nocturnal freezer raid for the last bit of praline ice cream in the carton.

When my in-laws purchased the condo, the family wasn’t quite so crazy-big—I mean, blessed. As our numbers grew, some of the kids pooled resources and purchased the unit next door, adding 600 square feet to our territory. At the rate we’re going, we’ll soon be scouting sales for the rest of the units in the building. It’s a good thing we have four real estate brokers in the family.

Sure, it might sound like third-world conditions, but what started as cramped quarters out of financial necessity has become a burden of emotional necessity. As family members become more spread out and live farther from one another, we look forward to making the journey and sleeping on the floor with siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews. We’re emotionally compelled to share and create lifetime memories, drawing physically close to one another for a week each summer.

Really, really, really close.

The first time the words, “I hope you have a daughter just like you, someday,” escaped my lips in response to a defiant teen daughter, I probably should have enrolled in an intervention program, but denial runs deep for this mama.

My mother is a great word economist. Growing up (and as lately as last week), I experienced no shortage of frustration at her predilection for “finishing” statements in the middle of a sentence—as if everyone should simply know what Mom meant to say. For example, she’d say, “I’d really appreciate it if you could go into the laundry room and… (pause)…”

“And WHAT, Mom?” I’d insist. “Go into the laundry room and do the Hokey Pokey? Snort the laundry detergent? What IS it, Mom?”

Sometimes, asking Mom a question prompts answers having nothing to do with the subject at hand—a phenomenon I never clearly understood until becoming a mother. The problem is, we mamas have so much going on in our minds at all times, it’s hard to sort out what is most pertinent at any given moment. I’m grateful my kids are more patient with me than I ever was with my mom, especially when conversations go like this:

Pockets: Mom, can I borrow the car? I want to go to the movies with Sam.

Me: I think that would be okay, but before you go, I need you to… (pause)…

Pockets: Take out the trash? Feed the dog? Load the dishwasher? What IS it, Mom?

Me: Do you think we should have burritos for dinner next week?

A couple months ago, I crossed the point of no return when I cut the feet out of Snugglebug’s blanket sleeper to get a few more months of wear out of it. In a feeble display of I’m Not My Mother-ness, I refused to dig out my sewing machine to stitch binding onto the raw cut edges. Now, they’re just unraveling slowly with each washing.

See? I’m not my mother. Right? RIGHT?

I almost fooled myself, until I licked a napkin to wipe some dirt off Curlytop’s face the other day. Let’s face it—I’m a goner.