Scrambled Eggs

Photo by Ana June

For Prudence Baird, dusty eggs, puppy love, and baby crack make a wicked brew with the potential for world peace

When our Irish twins*, born a mere 22 months apart, reached toddlerhood, my husband reports that I got that misty-eyed look that says, “I’ll trade you a month of blow jobs for another baby.” Able to see the writing on the wall (much of it in red ink), my intrepid partner did what most sensible men would do—he rushed out and got himself a vasectomy.

Even so, I hoped and wished for another child. With my breastfeeding years fast receding to the realm of “remember when” and sentimental boo-hoo sessions alone in my room, having a third child became my holy grail, my Turkish delight, my must-see TV.

I refused to pass along cherished baby clothes. I squirreled away cutsie bibs and blankies. Intuitively, I knew that as long as my ovaries were pumping out eggs, there was a chance—even if it meant reattaching my husband’s pipes myself using an emery board and tweezers.

Now, thanks to new research, I realize I wasn’t insane any more than Tiger Woods, David Duchovny or Eliot Spitzer are. No, I wasn’t nuts—I was an addict. I was hooked on oxytocin.

Also known as baby crack, oxytocin is the hormone released in pregnancy, orgasm and most titillating, when nipples are stimulated—a key component of breastfeeding.

Oxytocin plays a big role in all things tender and maternal: from fertility and bonding, to trust and love. Of course, baby crack is not the only one reason we mothers love our babies, but oxytocin certainly plays a central role in our willingness to undergo childbirth more than once. Like a good dose of morphine, baby crack makes all of life’s boo-boos go bye-bye.

But eventually, my jones for mo’ baby crack waned along with my fertility. I resigned myself to going through the boys’ teenage years with only memories of adoring glances, small arms reaching for a hug, and wee hands wriggling themselves into mine.

Following the advice of Nora Ephron, who encourages parents of teenagers to get a puppy so that at least one creature in the house will love them, we acquired Eddy, a nine-week-old Welsh terrier, all sweet-smelling puppy fur and alimentary canal functions. As he squirmed in my arms, his big brown eyes adored me. His wet nose nuzzled me. At night, he slept pressed against my body.

And then, hullo! I felt the stirrings of my old friend, oxytocin. How else could I explain the sudden, shall we say, slip-n-slide qualities of my naughty bits?

“Nope!” laughed my doctor, “Your eggs are dust!” She scheduled an ultra-sound anyway, offhandedly remarking that sometimes these symptoms could be explained by cancer.

The next day in radiology, I noticed that the technician seemed to avoid my eyes as she carefully cleaned the wand of KY jelly and handed me a towel.

I gulped. “Did you see, uh, anything?”

She answered with a question, “When did you say your last period was?”

“August, 2007.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“Just tell me,” I pleaded, skipping ahead to the worse case scenario—having to rush home and finish my 2009 taxes before I succumbed.

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but you have several mature egg follicles. Three on each ovary. You should definitely use birth control.”

I left the hospital in a daze. In the dead of winter, literal and figurative, my ovaries flowered for one last time in a grande finale session brought on, no doubt, by the oxytocin generated by puppy love.

New studies point to oxytocin’s ability to help individuals form intimate relationships, feel at peace and care for one another, which is why some doctors are prescribing it to their patients with autism. Why spend hundreds of hours teaching rudimentary, robotic greetings to children who fail to thrive socially when you can get them to care about—to empathize with—their fellow human beings?

And why not take it one step further? Why are we dropping bombs from drones when we might achieve more by spraying our so-called enemies with oxytocin? If dusty eggs can suddenly spring back to life in the presence of puppy love, why can’t we make love and not war America’s chief export?

Is anyone with me on this? Baby crack for everyone! (Let’s start with Dick and Liz Cheney.)

*Children born on each other’s heels are called “Irish twins” and are not only an Irish phenomenon, but a result of marrying at an advanced age on the cusp of menopause.

Ana June is a family and child photographer based in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The photo of a very happy little Quinn Densmore, has been used to promote breastfeeding in several countries.

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