Baby Fever

My husband and I got married almost 15 years ago. We were your stereotypical high school sweethearts. I fell for him the first time I ever saw him, sitting quietly in the back of Math class. He was always more of the nerdy and shy type, while I was outgoing and spontaneous.

I’ll never forget the night he proposed to me with that $20,000 Tiffany engagement diamond ring. He took out a loan for it, which I’m sure he’ll be paying off until the day he dies. I always knew he was a keeper, but that night was when things became truly solidified for me.

He’s always treated me like a queen, like I am the center of his world. Even with both of us working full-time, I still came home to fresh-cooked meals, a glass of wine, and a hot bubble bath ready to sink into after dinner.

Dylan got a vasectomy when he was 23. That was one thing we shared thoroughly in common - neither of us wanted to have kids. He couldn’t endure the thought of me going through surgery to get my tubes tied, the pain and discomfort it would have caused me. He’s always been sensitive like that, thinking of others before himself. I lovingly agreed to the idea because I didn’t want to deal with the recovery either, and I’m glad it was him and not me.

It wasn’t until a few years later, when I turned 27, that the strange sickness of baby fever started to breed within me. I don’t know if it was hormones or seeing all my friends pop out these adorable kids that sparked my interest in reconsidering what I previously thought was a concrete decision. I don’t think I’ll ever know the reasoning behind it, but all I did know was that I suddenly wanted a kid, and I wanted one right fucking now.

I tried dropping hints at Dylan, showing him these compilation videos of cute babies that I would see on Instagram reels. I frequently pointed out how adorable the baby clothes were when we went to the store. Dropping the whole “IF we had a baby, I would totally get these shoes for them.” He would just look at me with impassive eyes and shrug. I could see the look of disinterest written all over his face.

I tried talking to him about getting his vasectomy reversed, even though I knew there wouldn’t be a 100% chance that he would be able to get me pregnant.

“Sweetheart, you know I love you and would do anything for you, but I have to be honest with you about this. I don’t want kids. I never saw this as a part of my path, and you knew this. I know how much you want this, and I’ll really try to think about it, but I just don’t think my mind will change on that. I hope you can understand where I’m coming from.” He said to me.

Blah. Blah. Blah. Shut the fuck up, Dylan. You’re my husband, you’re supposed to give me everything that I want and more. Isn’t that what men are for, to satisfy women? That’s what I wanted to say to him, but I restrained and just nodded, said thank you, and gave a little condescending smirk.

It wasn’t even a want anymore; I needed a kid, and I wanted one right then and there. That fever was starting to burn me alive. I found myself spending most of my time at work daydreaming about being pregnant, becoming a mom, and what it would feel like. Something I once had a disdain for was quickly becoming a craving that was devouring me.

I guess I got lucky, though. I’m now pregnant with my second child. We had our firstborn about three years ago. A beautiful and healthy baby girl. Dylan was distraught when he first found out, or devastated, I should say. The poor guy cried for weeks about it. I started to become mildly concerned that he had fallen into a deep depression during the time I was pregnant. He would still take care of me every day and make sure I was okay but other than that, it seemed like the more life grew inside me, the more life became sucked out of him.

Everything changed, though, when she was born. I think he slowly started to fall in love with her. I mean, how could you not? Even if they were unwanted at first, you have to share some kind of affection and love for your very own child, or you’re quite heartless. I saw light forming within Dylan’s eyes the more time he spent with her, awakening to the fact that he had helped create this precious human being.

Except that he didn’t.

No one, not even Dylan, was going to stop me from getting what I wanted. If he didn’t want to give me a child, I would go find someone who would. I began tracking my period deliberately and would find myself having a one-night stand once a month while I knew I was ovulating. We all know that men hate wearing condoms, and it was easy enough to lie and say that I was on birth control. It only took a few tries before the sperm of a younger guy I met at a bar one night made contact with my eager egg, becoming fertilized at last.

Dylan’s flesh turned into the shade of eggshell white, and he projectile vomited all over the bathroom floor when I showed him the positive pregnancy test. I let him have a few minutes alone to choke on despair in his own personal hell while I sat at the dining room table, holding the pee-covered stick in my hand, smiling in my own personal heaven.

“You know, Dylan, while it is rare, there’s always a small chance that pregnancy can still happen after getting a vasectomy done. That must have been the case here. While it’s uncommon, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this happen.” That’s what the doctor said to Dylan during our first check-up.

“See, babe, I told you.” I smiled at him, knowing that my plan worked exactly as I wanted.

The child I’m currently pregnant with now is actually his, though.

Funny how things work like that. If I were just patient enough, I wouldn’t have had to go and get pregnant by someone else.

After all, we did end up falling into that less than 1% that still have a pregnancy happen after a vasectomy.