I have reason to believe that nearly a dozen uteruses are conspiring against me.

In the last six months, approximately all of our friends either got pregnant or had babies. It's not a perfect statistic, but it's pretty damn close.

When the first couple were born, I thought, "Wow, how cool...what are the odds of two of my friends having babies at the same time? I should introduce them...perhaps the little bundles of cry could play together some day." When the next couple were born, I thought, "Wow, how fortunate...that God, in all of His generous bounty, had decided to bless our community of friends with such a cornucopia of little souls for us to tend to." When the next couple were born, I thought, "Wow, how creepy...the condoms around here sure are unreliable." Finally, when the most recent six were born and four more friends got pregnant...the truth became all too clear...

...there is a global conspiracy to try to get me to have a baby.

Somewhere underneath the streets of Cincinnati there is a an underground HQ, complete with large-screen plasma displays constantly updating with new pregnancy info, vertical pieces of glass that you can write on with markers from both sides in order to chart my progress, and a big black onyx table where all of the women in my life meet to plot every nuanced move necessary to change my heart from irresponsible young ragamuffin to responsible, reliable Pop.

...and at the head of that table sits my dear wife...hands tented together, head tilted slightly downward, an evil grin on her face and holding another picture of another cousin who just gave birth to another wrinkly squish-dough screamster.

...


Here's the weird part: it's kind of working. No, I'm not the hardened, wild-oats sowing bachelor who is turning into a big soft teddy bear. I was never that wild, and I'm not that teddybeary now. But my heart is changing. I think I like babies...at least a bit. More likely a lot.

My favorite part is when I get to be one-on-one with them. Nobody taking a picture of me holding the baby, nobody asking me how I'd like to be a daddy, nobody gesturing with their elbow at me holding the baby and then knowingly winking at Stacy. Just me and the baby...little, breathing, warm, helpless, surreal and perfect. That's my favorite part.

I want a son. I want a daughter. I want a newborn baby that kind of looks like me and kind of looks like Stacy and mostly looks like an old man. I want to hold my baby and know that I don't have to give her back. I want to wonder what my tiny son will be like when he's done fighting to stay asleep at night and has begun pulling the covers over his own head to dampen the wail of the alarm clock so he can stay in bed for a few more minutes. I want to fear the rise and fall of her chest, impossibly small and complex in my hand, as her eyes dart wildly beneath closed lids in her newborn dreams. I want a son to teach, a daughter to be perplexed by, and Saturday mornings of fallen Cheerios and headless Barbies.

I want it to be safe, I want it to be scary, I want it to go right and I want to build a rebel. I don't know what I want, but I want the experience as much as I fear it.

We're thinking about it. I'm thinking about it. A lot.

Peace,
Justin