Baby, baby

My very good friends, a lovely, strange couple, just welcomed their first child into the world on Friday afternoon. And, despite the fear arising from the last ultra-sound, the boy does not look like Homer Simpson. So everything worked out okay there.

These aren't the first of my friends that have had a child. But pretty much all of my other friends who had babies? Lived in other states at the time. If it hadn't been me moving away from them, I would've started taking it personally long ago. And, no, I didn't move away at the first sign of morning sickness.

The only other time I've been around pregnant folk? About seven years ago, when three women in our very small office were all pregnant at the same time. That? Was how I learned everything I ever wanted and never wanted to know about childbirth. If I never get involved in a discussion about episiotomies again, it'll be too soon. And I know the men in that office didn't need to know about toughening up nipples for breast feeding.

I'm torn on the idea of childbirth, myself--all references to episiotomies aside. I would honestly like a little one to teach things to. To take to get ice cream on warm summer nights. To teach how to pump your legs on the swing to get higher and higher and higher. To show how to color the entire sky in a picture, not just the blue line at the top of the page.

On the other hand, there's the loss of time. The loss of identity. The idea that you'll be cutting up food for the next seven years. That you'll have nothing but chicken nuggets in your freezer forever. That there will be yet another person you have to argue over the remote with. That someone will forever be changing the radio station in your car without your permission.

And, frankly, I hate Barney.

I'm an only child and I don't share well. No, that's not a fair assessment. I can share, if I know that there are limits to how long and how far I have to share. But, at the end of the day, I'm selfish. I like things the way I like them and I don't know if I'm ready to give that up. Or if I'll ever be ready.

I keep thinking that, someday, lightning will strike. I'll wake up one day and say, "Okay, self, you're ready now. Ready for diapers and formula and spit up and all that fun stuff." But it hasn't happened yet. And I have friends who really, really want children. Who know it and have always known it and are running toward that goal with the single-minded determination of marathon runners in the final stretch.

Me? I'm just walking on the treadmill.

So, I sit and wonder, is something wrong with me? Should I be out there, sizing up men for their positive genetic factors, wondering if they'd make good on their child support payments? Should I be at Babies-R-Us, registering for the latest in Graco-designed baby carriers? Should I be picking out preschools and weighing the merits of a Montessori education?

Or do I sit on my selfish laurels, drive my tiny car and spend my money on stiletto heels because I like the way they make my legs look?

Shit, I dunno. I guess I'll start with teaching this new baby as many swear words as possible when his parents are out of the room.