What is it about turning one that seems to be the magical age? I’m referring to not just us as parents, because turning one is a whole different ballgame for moms filled with sippy cups, finger foods, walking and wondering how the hell I’m going to save for his college AND my sure-to-be-needed facelift.

I’m referring to other people. There’s something about once your kid hits a year that reactivates people’s crazy switch. At my son’s first birthday party, I got this question more than once: “When’s the next one?” The first time I heard it, I paused while pouring myself another glass of wine and responded, “Next what? Party? Bottle of wine going to be opened?” I was truly, honestly confused.

Until the evil partygoer gave me a Look and said, “You know, next kid.”

I knew I had two options: answer politely or clutch the hair against my head and run screaming at the thought of another six months of offering my soul to the devil himself if he could just get my kid to sleep through the night. 

I chose the first option: “Are you kidding? Please, tell me you’re kidding.”

Now, I’m getting the question all over the place. If I wear a loose fitting shirt, people assume I’m trying to hide something. If I complain of being tired, my coworkers wonder if I’m knocked up again.

For the record, to everyone: NO, OK? The answer is NO. For the love of sweet Jesus, NO.

But what’s funny to me is that these are the same people nodded in agreement during conversations of how hard it would be, how unplanned it would be, if I got pregnant again anytime soon.

But, now that my kid is a year old? Fair game, my friends.

I’m thinking of carrying around a glossy brochure for the nearest residential psychiatric facility and whipping it out whenever I get any of those questions going forward. As in, “Here. Here is where I would be if I had another kid right now. Visiting hours are from 4-6pm. I’ll be there for the next, oh, eighteen years or so.”

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