If

I know it's wrong, and certainly just plain icky of me, but I'm currently working on a nice, slow seethe over Britney's ability to procreate with such apparent ease ( I shouldn't have picked up that People magazine this morning).

It bugged me the first time, but the second time - an admitted oops - is just plain annoying to the uterinely challenged.

I should NOT begrudge someone a child, no matter how vapid they are or how atrocious their choice of breeding partner. But I do.

There she is - in all her nubile glory, buck naked on the cover of some magazine - flaunting her fertility in my face. And only two months after she tearfully begged the media to leave her alone and just let her be a regular wife and mom.

'Cause you know, that's what all regular moms do - strip down to the skivvies God gave 'em and pose for national magazines with strategically placed hands covering enormous breasts and legs crossed 'just so" to avoid giving readers a view of baby's escape hatch.

She just bugs me, that's all.

It's because I'm old and bitter. And require drugs to make my innards do what hers are still able to do all on their own, dammit.

After I flipped past the Britney article I came across an ad that showed a harried mom with two toddlers doing harried mom stuff. I can't remember what produce was being advertised. In fact I'm not sure I even noticed because I just kept thinking that I was once this close to being a mom just like that - one with a baby right here instead of in heaven.

It's a funky blue day, I guess. A day for lavish pity parties and thoughts of what might have been. If I was younger. If I'd known something was wrong. If I could turn back time.

If I still had my Thomas.