Over dinner one night last year, the topic of conversation turned to children. More specifically, babies. More specifically, my two friends wanted them. Not some time in the future -- they wanted babies now.
I stopped chewing my undercooked zucchini in disbelief. Were they serious?
Well, they knew they couldn't have a child "now," at this exact moment in their lives, but every time they passed a baby on the street, they yearned to be a mother. Didn't I agree?
Not exactly. I felt no attraction to the idea of being responsible for another soul other than my own. And I couldn't understand why anyone else in their early 20s would want to. And then this summer, I revisited that ancient occupation of teenagers around the world -- babysitting.
"All you need is a little common sense," the baby's father assured me. No matter that I hadn't babysat since early high school, no matter that I had never even babysat an actual baby; my attendance at Dartmouth was enough, he said. Surely an Ivy League student was capable of watching an eight-month-old baby girl.
Three hours into the first day, I was doubting why anyone in their right mind would want a baby. Molly demanded my full attention at every second. She cried, she drooled, she pulled my hair. Real parents had to put up with this every day -- at least I got to hand her over to her dad at the end of the afternoon. At least I got paid.
But when I was with Baby Molly, I was too busy to spend time deconstructing motherhood. I was in charge of this little human for seven hour stretches. What to do? "Sing to her," someone advised. "Babies love being sung to." So, after making sure my roommate was out of the apartment, I sang, hoping that a quiet, hesitant rendition of the "ABCs" would suffice.
"Rock her," someone else said. "Babies loved being rocked." So I walked around with her in my arms, swaying from side to side. I myself succumbed to the calming effect of the motion.
And then I noticed the other things that came with Molly. Like how she did wonders for my popularity. I was living on the grounds of the arts center where I worked, so I frequently carried her around outside in my arms. Molly was quite a social magnet. She was a smash at the Monday picnic lunch; by Tuesday, almost everyone we saw knew her name (even if they didn't know mine). Everyone wanted to touch her, to coo at her, to hold her in their arms. Molly was a star and I lived vicariously through her fame.
Sometime in all the hours of looking after her (maybe it was when I was applying sunblock to her tiny nose) it hit me -- the maternal instinct.
I wanted a baby.
It was more than just the cute outfits with all the little snaps, the miniature size sailor's cap. It was holding this small human being, and feeling this small being depend on you. I felt it most strongly when she would fall asleep on my chest, hands clutching my shirt, her little head rising and falling with my own breaths. At times like those, even if I was pinned to the chair in the most awkward position possible, I couldn't think of a better way to spend a summer's afternoon.
I loved stuffing Molly into her papoose and walking around with her molded to my stomach. That's how kangaroos must feel with their young tucked into their pouch.
I took Molly with me to the computer lab and let her bang on the keyboard as I checked my email. I wrote my sister a message: "I have a baby on my lap and I want one!"
My sister wrote back: "What are you, nuts?"
By the last morning, I was watching the clock in eager anticipation of her arrival. I had given Molly about 20 nicknames by this point. I was also making up songs for her like there was no tomorrow. I had become an expert baby-swayer. As a matter of fact, I couldn't turn it off -- I even swayed in the shower, one hip slightly cocked, support for the baby that wasn't there.
And then her father gave me a check, a bottle of wine and took Molly back home to Manhattan. My parents came to visit the next day, and we went to a popular lobster joint for dinner. The food was tasty and it was good to see my parents, but I was more interested in the booth next to us. My mother finally put down her fork and asked me what I was staring at. I gestured to the right -- a most adorable baby at the next table. My parents were shocked by my new infatuation with motherhood. I just smiled and returned to my fried clams.
I'm not saying that I'm surveying the field for a potential mating partner. In fact, now that I'm back in Dartmouth land, now that I don't have a cutie drooling on my shoulder, it's a little hard to imagine that just a few months ago, I was yearning to be a mother. But I'm not worried. I know now that when the time comes, that maternal instinct will kick in.
