Baby on the brain

In all, a good weekend. A weekend spent with good friends, old friends, in the company of lots of alcohol, (perhaps too much alcohol if the size of my headache this morning serves as any indication), sunshine, swimming pools, laughter, and good food.

I’ve noticed lately, that many get-togethers with my friends have, increasingly, included the company of children. Small ones. Shouts of ‘don’t touch that!’ or ‘isn’t she absolutely adorable,’ and discussions centering on diaper rashes, the pros and cons of breast-feeding and nap times have infiltrated our late night talks about men, the predominance, or total lack of them, in our lives.

Yes, some of my friends have made the cross-over into the realm of parenthood. While I sit safely on this side of that overwhelming jump to the ultimate in responsibility, it is impossible not to wonder what it must be like to have another, tiny human being completely dependent upon you. As I watched one of the tiny toddlers in question run across the lawn to his mother’s wide open and waiting arms this weekend, the look on my friend’s face was one of pure, raw love for this little person. The details of her personal life, and the dynamics of her relationship with the father of this child are difficult at the least, tragic at the worst, and yet, the pleasure she derives from mothering this little guy warms my heart every time I see them together.


But as the weekend drew to a close, and I came back to my apartment, consumed with concerns about my laundry, the salmon I have marinating in my fridge, and the looming deadline for the story I have to write, I realized that I’m just not ready to sacrifice my independence for another person yet. I feel I still have such a tremendous amount of growing up to do, and the thought of knowing that a daughter or son would be dependent on my every move, every decision, terrifies me. And so for now, I will live vicariously through my friends, increasing in number, with children of their own. I can give bottles, take for walks, sing to sleep, wipe tears and clean sticky fingers, and know, that at the end of the day, these children will be safe from my foils and fumbles, my mistakes, small, large, and glaring. That they have mothers ready for their responsibility and care, and that it will be a pleasure and a gift for me, to watch them grow into the people their parents help shape them to be.