My name is Ariel, and I was a babycrack junkie.
I’ve mentioned babycrack a couple times here before, but I realize that I’ve never fully defined it. Babycrack is my way of explaining that at-times irrational urge to procreate.
Readers who have had experiences with addictive behavior will understand that there are times when the little voice in your head (that voice you normally trust; the voice that reminds you to pee, eat, or sneeze) does you wrong. Sometimes, that little voice suggests that you do another line of coke, drink another bottle of wine, play another game of blackjack or WoW, or take another toke off that crackpipe.
Your conscious brain sits there and says, “Oh no: that’s not what I need right now. Not at all,” but the hungry little ghost inside says, “Oh yes it is! Just one more line/sip/etc! Bet the farm: it doesn’t matter…just hurry up! Grab the mirror and the razor blade! Pick up the glass tube pipe! For godsake — the time is now!”
That, my dear friends, is what being in my mid-20s felt like. I wasn’t stupid: I knew that it wasn’t the time to have a baby. My conscious brain said things like, “Gosh, I barely made rent and am totally emotionally unstable right now — probably not a good time to be thinking about reproduction,” but babycrack brain says, “BUT LOOKIT LITTLE WIDDUM’S CUTIE WIDDLE BOTTOM!”
Before I had a baby, sometimes hanging out with friends’ infants felt like doing a big fat line of quality-grade baby.
And now that I have a baby? I’m in a state of chronic overdose. And I like it!