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.