Sssh. Can you hear that soft tick, tick, tick? It’s my biological clock. What with time and distance being what they are, it’s more like a BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! on my end, and each day it just keeps getting louder. First my girl Margi (whose long-time blog I so miss) had a beautiful little boy, then my best gal Kelley went and got herself knocked up, too.

What started as my dim awareness of creeping time — and my impending 39th birthday (15 more shopping days, for those who care) has turned into full-fledged baby lust. Not that I make a good pregnant woman, mind you. The last time we were pregnant — which ended, unfortunately, in a miscarriage — I went straight from conception into hormonal insanity by Week 5. There are some in my family who’d claim I never got over that last part.

But I want another child. I really, really do. I love babies, particularly when they’re mine. Besides, unlike that 12-year hiatus between my first and second child, this time I still have fresh memories of all the good parts as well as the bad. My life now revolves around my children, and I have never been so happy. That’s one of the greatest things about homeschooling: getting pregnant again is like unexpected company on tuna casserole night: what’s another person, except more joy?

When I say I want another child, this time I know what I’m asking… and I mean it. I’ve learned so much more about myself and what I’m capable of doing as a mother in the past year, and I am ready I am so damn ready.

The Venomous Hubby is not as enthused. Oh, sure, he’s all over that “practicing to get pregnant” part but not so big on the thought of being new parents again. He has not, however, gone to get that vasectomy that I’ve repeatedly suggested so I figure he’s willing to assume the risk, right?

Perhaps I could convince him if we lived in Russia where they’re offering over $9,000 (U.S.) to women who have second children in an effort to combat declining population rates. Or maybe if the U.S. Army upped his pension for each child I popped out like they’re doing in Portugal? (Thanks to Venomite Dianne for the tip!)

Ah, well. My baby dreams continue. And, since tonight’s the night when American Idol announces the winner after two and a half hours of programming I’ll most likely be following my own advice on how to conceive:

1. Sit down.
2. Have a drink.
3. Have another.
4. Take a good, long look at your husband. Now, picture your father-in-law. Picture yourself having sex with your father-in-law. Sound gross? Well, get over it. Because – if you do have children, that is precisely how old your husband is going to be by the next time the two of you have the energy/cash/privacy to have another nice, long, romantic heave-ho on the living room floor. Not so idyllic now, is it?
5. Have another drink.

And then — if Katharine McPhee wins — I’ll be moving to Russia.