The average cost of childcare in NYC, as told to me by Google, is close enough to a third of what I make in a year to make me choke on the eight-dollar green juice – I am bloated within an inch of my life, guyz - that I’ll never be able to ever splurge on ever again EVER if I commit to continuing the family line. I also just looked at what the premium and out of pocket maximum would be for one year of niño health coverage and now all I can picture is Diego and I and Baby Lineberry-Martinez shivering in the snowy London streets like a trio of matchstick girls. I don’t know how we got to London. We probably had to go there because we ran out of banks to rob in the States trying to pay for Griffon’s cat food, because the cat always comes first. Right? Surely a baby wouldn’t change that.

But I mean. There are a lot of rich people driving up these “averages,” right? There are always packs of children wreaking havoc on my street, how much could it possibly cost to get my kid into one of those? Can I just leave it outside and hope it’s accepted? Like a baby wolf? Note to self, research wolves.

Plus also, more and more lately I’ve been fantasizing about my little dream house in the forest. Diego would work and I would stay home and homeschool our brood and wear big sweaters and wool socks and use coupons and have a deep-freezer. And on weekends we would go on family outings in the city that will be conveniently located just a short drive away. But not so short that anybody bothers me in my little dream house. Or comes into my forest. Unless it’s because I asked them to deliver something to me. But then, it’s get in and get out, buddy.

There’s also my dream of changing my name and picking a new city and getting a job as a sassy waitress with a secret. I’m really into that dream, too.

Anyway I’m not sure I actually ever want to deal with buying a house (in a forest or otherwise), but I do want to make sure I’m investing my nickels in a smart way. And the more I look at “What can I afford to funnel into a such-and-such account?” the less sure I am that having a baby is something I really want to do. And by “do” I mean “pay for,” but I also mean other things too. I’m still working toward having a fluffy cushion of money between The Crushing Weight of Apprehension and the rest of my brain. But once I have the savings account I want (someday) (if I can stop blowing my paycheck on booze and shows and fancy food) (LOL okay), I just know I’ll find something else to fixate on. And I don’t think it’s fair for that to be another human. Plus what if I don’t even like that human? What if I give up wine and sushi for six months and it still comes out crappy? What are the actual odds that my kid will grow up and change MY diapers when I’m old? I’ll tell you something, that kid might not take care of me, but returns on a healthy portfolio sure will. (I don’t know if that makes sense. LMK, Suze.) 

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to give this so much thought. Whatever happens is going to be exactly how everything else I’ve ever done has happened – by accident. So whatever. I’m planning on re-enrolling in classes this spring, though, so I’ll probably get pregnant tomorrow. Right in time to not be able to drink at any Christmas parties. Amazing.