I couldn’t sleep last night.  Hot, cold, twisty covers, snotty nose…you name it.

I arose at what was late for me (after 7am), but after entirely not enough zzzs.  I thought I’d pop up for some animal wrangling (our domestics, not the exotic kind), a bit of cleaning, and be down for the count before lunch.

Instead I organized my desk - including actually organizing the areas I messed up via organization, cleaned the kitchen, updated my address for my W2, sent two tardy emails, made one tardy phone call, got car stuff to the car, closet stuff to the closet, and started a load of laundry.

A quick bite, a quick panic of not finding one Ms. Celeste (hiding in pants drawer), and I was off.  Recycling, returning the most awesome boots ever in hopes of repair, books for school, litter for cats, and Target for the assortment of everything else for anyone else.

I was driving home (to finish the laundry, put away the dishes, exercise, and make dinner), when it hit me.

My mom is a super hero.

No fucking way I could do all this and then come home and engage a “Why?  Why?  Why?” toddler.  Or smile for the sullen pre-teen.  Or even gather up the energy to post bail for the minor.

ST’s mom recently made the hint that I have “plenty of good years left.”  To which I laugh, cringe, and sigh.  I’ve never wanted kids.  I’ve thought about them, determined at certain points in my life that if one came around I’d stick with it, and to be honest, I’ve fantasized about just giving up the struggles of defining myself in the world and let some diapered butt attached to my hip define me on its own.

(Note: I realize becoming a mother is difficult and a struggle itself.  I also realize that mother’s struggle with definition, perhaps even more so.  But the grass is always greener and that’s why it’s called a fantasy.)

In the end, I still have no deep desire to procreate.  And day’s like today bring home that fact.  But…strangely…I have a deep desire to have that deep desire.  I want to want kids.  I don’t know why.  I think you’re supposed to want kids, or have a deep repulsion of them.  At neither end of the spectrum, I keep waiting for the scale to tip.  I guess it makes sense to not have a deep desire to hate children, so I look towards the other end.  I wonder.  I wait.  I play with fake nieces and nephews.

It seems for every cute face, every tug at my heart strings and ovaries, there is another screaming brat holding me up in line at Publix.

I’m also dealing intimately from the other end.  I call.  I visit.  Would my grandparents be OK without me?  How much impact am I really having?  How might I feel when I’m that old and no granddaughter is checking in?  Maybe I’d be relieved to not have to fake cheery to one more person.  Maybe I’d die earlier, from loneliness.

I’ll see another fake nephew for the first time tomorrow.  I’m woefully late on introductions - he’s two months old - but I’ve been busy.  I’ll squeeze him and Mom in between a condo check/furniture pick-up and getting paperwork done for the new job.

I’m curious as to how I’ll feel.