A baby dropped by work yesterday accompanied by Big Brother, Mom, and Dad.  Women came from all directions as if there was some scent in the air.  What is it with all the squeaking and cooing and can I hold him?  Men fled and women stood in line to hold the baby.  He was passed around like a hot potato.  He’s not even a month old yet.  So it was a very small sack of potatoes, more like a very large roast.  Big Brother got bored and started racing around the cube-farm at top speed, bouncing off walls, and stealing candy.  I didn’t blame him. At his age, what fun is it if you can’t play with it.  All those adults inquisitioning him about his new Little Brother.  Give him a break, he’s really not sure how he feels yet.

All this fuss, and it was legion, was going on right outside my cube.  I had a front row seat for all the squeaking, cooing, and pregnancy stories.  As I sat there, it struck me as bizarre.  You get pregnant.  You swing between moments of sheer terror and incredible joy.  You can’t stop nature and shazaam, you suddenly have another life that you are responsible for.  At this stage, its sleep deprivation for you and constant sleep, poop, and eat cycle for him. Men flinch and women exchange war stories.

His mom confessed she’s bored stiff and has already been sneaking peaks at email, keeping tabs on work, and just plain craving adult conversation.  She gladly passed him off to all the cooing females just to have a few minutes off.

Eventually, all the more aggressive moms wandered away and the shy people popped out.  Those people who aren’t quite sure what to do with a baby, want to look, or feel socially obligated to go see the baby.  They stand back a few feet, right on the edge, hesitant.  You can see things flitting through their minds:  “It’s a baby.”  “Am I ever going to have one of those?”  “Does it bite?” “Let me get a little closer..” “Eww, ohh, wow.” “It’s a baby.”  “There, did it. Social obligation fulfilled. Run.”  “Do I want to hold it?”  “It’s a baby.” “It looks like every other one I’ve seen.”  “Cool.”  “Eww, are they supposed to do that?”  And then they too drift away.

Then it was my turn. She turned to me and said, “I have to pee.  Do you mind holding him for a bit?”  I must have looked wrong because after a frustrated sigh, one of the women plopped him in my arms, told me how to hold him, and next thing I knew, I was feeding a three week old infant.  I must have been doing it right, because everyone settled down.  Then he farted, burped, and went to sleep.  I was told I had truly been accepted. But I must confess. No twinges of maternal instinct.  No ticks from the old clock.  Nada. Zilch. Zippo. 

Long time ago I realized that on the subject of having children, I really was apathetic.  I’m sure if I was with someone who really had the joneses for them, I would have them.  But who I’m with now, likes them a lot but also likes to give them back.  We’ve talked about it and agree, if something happened to our friends, we would gladly step in and raise em.  But having our own just isn’t in the stars.

Ciao