My own kids. With Jake.
Now, I'm not thinking in a flush-the-pills and throw caution to the wind kind of way, but in a rather contemplative 'do we want them?' kind of way.
Everyone I've ever known has said I'd be a good mom - since I was about 8. I like kids! I'm not real keen on babies, as they don't do much more than cry and sleep and eat, but once they've developed minor communication skills and some limited mobility, they're a lot of fun. I never had younger siblings, but I've taught kids plenty of times, I used to babysit, I tutored high school students for years. Little kids, like most animals, sort of gravitate to me in a room. At the Christmas party here at work, I usually look down and find that a small person has latched themselves to me adoringly. I can very safely say that I am more qualified to have kids than half the people I see dragging little screaming, grabby monsters around Fred Meyers.
The questions I ask myself: Do I want to bring children into the world as I see it becoming? Do I have a social obligation to 'improve' the world with my progeny? Do I have the energy to add a child to my plate of things to do? What am I willing to sacrifice to be a mother? Anything? Am I even ready for a child? I'm hardly capable of feeding myself!
Maybe I should get a puppy this summer. I have a feeling I'm suffering one of those maternal must-cuddle-something girly-urges that Jake resists unless he's falling down sick and that Velcro squirms out of. Maybe it'll go away.