Can I pout for a moment? I have never really wanted to be a super model (well not since I was 14 anyway.) I am comfortable -most days- with my genetic make-up – I have a plentiful booty & thighs and my bosom is less than ample. I have no illusions that even starvation and intense daily workouts would result in a figure worthy of the runway and that’s ok, I have a man who thinks I am lovely to look at and to hold and that means the world to me. But I can’t do well the one thing I always wanted to do well – be pregnant. I puke my guts up for months when I am with child. I lose more weight than I gain (don’t hate me, I more than gain it back while I am nursing. I am so not a textbook case for pregnancy.) And then they – the babies – come out purple and white and not breathing because the chords are wound so tightly around their necks (because apparently I make a pretty good jungle gym there in my belly.) And it is hours before I can hold them because they are in the NICU. So Nate and I have come to the choice that we won’t be having any more biological children. And most days I am ok with that, because like I said, I have a man who thinks I am lovely. And I have 2 boys, who are healthy despite their traumatic and dramatic entrances. And I have a gift of a job that I love and the most amazing friends who love me and most days I can come up with something pretty cute to wear… But this put me over the edge. It just isn’t fair. They name underwear after her, she host the coolest and smartest reality show ever invented, is married to a rich musician, has her own line of Birkenstocks and can pop babies out like a pez dispenser. I am going to cry.