Baby fever. That’s what I call it when I suddenly feel the urge to have another baby. It’s mostly a hormonal thing, with some emotion thrown in. It doesn’t last long, thankfully.

One of my friends gets the fever, too. She staves it off by looking at her children’s baby pictures.

A couple years ago, I texted a friend when the fever hit. They gently reminded me that James was a handful. He was, still is, and adding even a hamster to my responsibilities would be crazy.

Then there’s my age. I was 42 when James was born. At that time, the nurses would go on about my “advanced maternal age.” This term applies to any pregnant woman age 35 and older. Age is just a number, until you’re pregnant, apparently.

Yes, at my even more advanced age, I am still capable of making a baby. I checked with my bio mom, because I remembered she hit menopause late. Looks like I will, too.

Just because I could have a baby doesn’t mean I should. Logically, biology notwithstanding, I should be done with that by now.

That doesn’t make the baby fever go away. So I just do my best to ignore it until it passes.

I was born, I think, with the desire to create. I draw, I paint, I write. All these things bring me joy. So do my three children.

I practice self-restraint (something I have plenty of, despite my lack of patience). I walk, I do yoga.

I have also thought about having my remaining eggs frozen. Intriguing, expensive, and not very necessary. As an adoptee, I know love for a child does not depend on DNA.

So Baby Fever, go away!