Nothing jogs the memory quite like the sounds of yesteryear.

Michelle wiped her wet eyes clear and looked at the tiny media player and earphones Tim was holding out for her to take. "What is this?" She set the Motorola Digital Baby Monitor down next to her. "I thought we were talking about..."

"Holy crap, you really don't remember, do you?" Tim chuckled.

"You said you'd do this. When you made me record you that night, I told you you were insane, but you swore it was a good idea. I guess you were right." He gently placed the earbuds into her ears before sitting next to her on the bed. "Just listen, honey. All will be revealed." Tim pressed play.

Michelle? Michelle, this is you. You from the past. And if you're doing what I think you're doing, we really need to talk.

See, this thing that you're going through? It's happened before. Twice before, to be exact: once over a pair of shoes I was packing away when Olivia got too big for them, and then again when Jake started kindergarten. You're probably crying over something Jake made in preschool, or maybe the baby just said its first sentence. I don't know, maybe you'll be crying over something lame like the Motorola Digital Baby Monitor Tim just HAD to have because it's got a 1.5” Color LCD screen and night vision and that sounds cool to men after a certain age. You're probably looking at that Parent Unit you used to check the nursery's temperature or play three polyphonic lullabies to the baby and your ovaries are going to start throbbing again with the thought how little and perfect the child was.

But you're forgetting this part, Michelle. Something in your brain is blocking out your third trimester experiences. I don't know why, I don't know how. The point is, your body is turning on you in an attempt to create another ball of kicking fire and grief that will lodge its way under your ribs in the most uncomfortable way ever. And the thing is, I've done this to myself three times now. THREE. I'm done. That's enough. No more, do you hear me, me? No. More.

I love our kids, Michelle. I know you'll love them even more where you're at. But, please, for the love of everything we hold dear, don't put us through this again.

"Well?" Tim asked. "What did you say? You wouldn't let me be in the room when you recorded that and I've been dying to know forever."

Michelle slowly removed the media player from Tim's hands and placed it into her pocket, smiling. Sorry, Younger Self, she thought, but you're a bit of a whiner. "Past Michelle thinks we should keep the possibility of more kids on the table."

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