Under Doctors' Orders

Love it:  The silky underthing of my daughter's arm, the mossy pools that my son uses to see, the iron patience my husband forges, despite the many dings and bats to it daily, the ache inside me. 

When I see babies these days, they are not cute; they are dangerous. They raise a sharp longing in my craw.  They draw me into their force field, smiling and wobbling and falling and getting up again.  

If I have another one, my dead my explode: My veins unable to carry life for one more earthling.  So the doctors have said.  Could I have one more, were it possible, perhaps the babies would not slay me so; perhaps I would rest content in the know that I have chosen not to have another one, bring another one into this plain.  But because I absolutely cannot, the blow to my heart belies any cynicism I might have had in the past about bringing babies, children, people into this world.