Notta Baby Mamma

It seems like every woman I know is going into the baby business. I've watched as my friends from work transformed from young college grads playing the field to hip Brooklyn Moms with play dates and pediatrician appointments. The conversations with one co-worker that used to revolve around her dog now revolve around her human son.

A classmate from the past will connect with me via Facebook, and there, in their profile picture, is a former friend I vaguely recognize cradling their bundle (or bundles) of joy. And I think, "They can't be having babies yet. We're still babies." And then I realize, "We're in our thirties. When my mother was thirty, she had a two-year-old and a five-year-old."

I decided a long time ago, probably some short time after college, that children were not in my future. I'm barely capable of taking care of myself, and I don't exactly have the best genes. I also know that deep down, motherhood would not suit me. I like having my freedom; I hate having to worry about something so small and vulnerable--and even worse, that small and vulnerable something growing up and leaving me. But lately, I've been wondering what it would be like if I had my own child. Maybe it's that early-thirties-woman nesting instinct. Maybe it's because as I watch my nieces and other children grow and flourish, I realize that my surrogate child, Wendell the Asthma Cat, is never going to speak or mature or graduate from high school. (I tried to enroll him, but his standardized test scores were dismal.)

It could be that I watch how some of the other children I know are being raised, and I want to see if I could do as good a job as some and a better job than others. I want something that I can stare at and see my eyes, my smile, my mop of curly hair. (Well, maybe not that last one.) I want to be a two-year-old's most important person. I want to be loved unconditionally. I want to dress my child the way I want to dress him and introduce him to all the things I love. I want to help him pursue whatever his heart and mind can dream. I want to give a child a name. I want to tastefully decorate a nursery, with not a trace of Winnie the Pooh wall border.

But these are largely selfish, silly reasons to want a baby. And as I said before, it's not a commitment I'm willing or even capable to make. It's hard, though, to sit on the sidelines and watch my friends raising families. (For the record, although I've seen myself as a mother, there's never been another parent in the picture. It's always just me and him.) While the final choice of not being a mother was made a long time ago, that was before my peers turned into horny little baby factories. I'm a little sad. Sometimes I think of myself holding the little boy in the dinosaur pajamas, his weary head rested comfortably on my shoulder, his slippers dangling off his feet. . . or even, gasp! the little girl in princess jewelry learning showtunes under my tutelage. But through choice and circumstance, I was not meant to have this kind of life. My sister is never going to pass down a crib to me; my mother is never going to make a weekly trip to my home to bond with her grandson. I am what I am. I am not a parent. And ultimately, I think I'm okay with it. I have my two nieces; while they're not mine, they have brought immeasurable joy into my life. And when they aren't perfect little angels, I'm reminded that this is not for me. Little Murray Benjamin will remain an occasional daydream, tucked neatly between the Emmy Award and the Epcot wedding to a Jewish firefighter from Ohio.