My husband and I have a baby every five years whether we need one or not. You could set your sundial by it. 1991 — it’s a girl! 1996 — it’s a girl! 2001 — it’s a girl with an unsightly appendage!
No, wait. It’s a boy!
Granted, our multiplication timetable isn’t for everyone. Some spouses just trade in their cars every so often. Others tour Tuscany or upgrade to Berber. Ben and I, on the other hand, wait until the last calibrated spoon melts onto a hot dishwasher coil and the faint aroma of curdled breastmilk fades from the duvet. Then, and only then, do we have a mutual epiphany: Let’s tour Tuscany!
Oops, can’t. I’m pregnant …