A testicular projection

My husband is convinced that I have baby rage.

Baby rage is typically defined as the feelings provoked by screaming ovaries at the sight of nommy, cute babies.

You see, we decided to let the whole procreation thing work itself out after being married. I have never been one of those women who HAD HAD HAD to be a mommy. He's never been a guy who HAD HAD HAD to be a daddy.

Babies are cute, but I've never felt like them the way I do about my philosophy products: MUST HAVE THEM. I thought for a very long time I was missing the mommy gene. I kind of still think I am. I'm not a hundred percent sure. Is that normal?

Do women absolutely know when they are ready to have a baby (one that's planned, anyway)?

Even as a little girl, I wanted to play with my plastic Black Beauty, Ginger and Merrylegs and Barbies (sometimes at the same time, but the scale was all goofy and even as a five year old that was bothersome) and not the plastic, peeing baby dolls my relatives would buy me. Just an aside, those urinating dolls are gross and creepy.

Tom and I actually got into a bit of a snit the other day. You know, one of those spousal snits when you're both on the same side of the argument but the man, I mean, one of you doesn't realize it?

He kept saying: "We can't have a baby right now. We can't have a baby right now".

I kept saying: "I know; I don't want a baby right now. I know; I don't want a baby right now. That's why I take that teeny pill every morning".

He kept repeating the above.

I kept repeating my lines until he said something that really freaked me out: "We can start trying this time next year to get pregnant, but not before".

Can a 37 year old woman have a mid-life crisis?

I distinctly felt my ovaries shrink and recede a bit.

I know Tom and I would be good parents. Hell, we have a cat that will be sixteen years old this Saturday with advanced chronic renal failure that is bounding from chair to bed to dresser, eating a ton of food every day and pooping the stinkiest cat poop you've ever smelled. Tom and I even joke we're going to start photographing and cataloging her poo because we simply cannot reconcile the notion that the econo-sized toostie rolls in the litter box came from our tiny cat's bowel.

It's become one of our ongoing jokes and last night I took it to the next level (after the photographing and cataloging) by suggesting that we would bag and freeze it.

Tom then said "And get it bronzed like baby shoes".

He keeps bringing it up. NOT ME.

I think his epidydimus are screaming at him.

I think he's projecting his baby rage onto my ovaries. And as this woman knows, those girls are not things which take testicular projection lightly.