It is not a time of life. It is not a stage in a journey. It is not a milestone.

How would a commitment-phobic, twenty-six year old with anger issues and the patience levels of a rhino who has already been poked once too many times, would know *anything* about being maternal?

I’ll tell you how.

1: I am owned by a cat. It broke a television set, scratched me innumerable times and gives me less attention than it gives its own bum. I have a faint suspicion that human babies are slightly more considerate.

Yet, cuddling it is the highlight of my day.

2: I find that I am attached to projects. I call them my babies. Also, I cry about them. And they don’t even hug me when I do that.

Yet, I like having them in my lap and watching them grow.

Does this mean I’m ready for the nappy-changing, no-sleeping, perennially tired par of life?

Since I also end up killing all the plants I try to grow, I’m going with…probably not.

But, that does not mean that I should keep my maternal instincts under wraps until my baby (or rosemary’s, depending on my luck) arrives.

I can still let it out and shower it indiscriminately upon street urchins and strange dogs and alley cats and the lone, demented individual who is okay with my one-horned aggressiveness.

Plus it keeps that ruddy clock happy.

As I said, it’s not a time of life, it’s a state of mind.


One comment

  1. worldthatexistforme · October 19, 2012

    Somebody pls explain it to my mumma (its not about time, its about state of mind)

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