Blog Written with a loving hand by kitt some time around 14:22 on 7 November 2005
Maeryn stopped by to visit us at the office last week. Being the lazy, helpless one she is, she allowed her father to do all the hard work, including the lifting, and carrying, and turning, all while she slept. Well, sorta. The poor kid had to endure being cuddled and cood by me for a while, as well as being half woken up when I felt her soft, soft, tiny fingers or when I shoved a camera up close to her face. I know of no other baby who smiles as much as Maeryn. I'm convinced she's either joy personified, or a miswired, confused, little baby who thinks the smiley face is a general expression of existence. During her visit, Doyle and I started commenting on all the pregnant women in our circle of friends. Pretty much all the married women either are pregnant or have given birth recently (if "recently" is defined as within the last two or so years). The one exception is, yes, you guessed it, yours truly. (I wanted to write "me" instead of "yours truly," but "me" is grammatically incorrect there. Since I recognize that it is incorrect, I'm sure it would annoy me. But, "I" just sounds wrong there, so "yours truly" it is.) After realizing after, well, Lisa's retirement announcement (for at least nine months), followed by Wade's limerick announcement of Christina's pregnancy, that I am the only non-pregnant, non-mother, Doyle looked up and exclaimed, "Be strong, Kitt! Be strong!" Yeah. Kids. Like I want the buggers. I say that, but 100 million years of evolution really can't be denied. Hormones and society certainly exert their forces upon my psyche, too. As much as I'd like to think I have more male characteristics than most straight women, that I can hang with these guys on anything technical, and be just as indifferent to the idea of a family, I have to wonder at what I might be missing. And sometimes, just sometimes, like the quiet moments I spend watching Maeryn sleeping in her seat or snuggled up with Kate, or Gabby playing in the sand looking for shells and seeing everything as bright and shiny and new, I think, maybe... just maybe... How bad could it be? A little me running around. Pigtails in her hair. The world as an opportunity, all shiny and new. A kid of my very own. Being able to teach her science and math. Teach her how to throw a frisbee. Maybe she'll enjoy tennis or volleyball or soccer. Teach her to program at age 3, as soon as she can read (yes, my little brother learned that young). Going on a hike with her little legs moving next to me. Pray she doesn't get migraines, lord, don't let that happen. ... ... ... And then some other kid comes screaming along, throwing a tantrum, kicking or hollering or turning red from the cry, cry, crying. And I'm snapped back to reality. Helluva lot easier to resist them when they're being little turds.