As a female in my late-20s, I keep expecting the little firework to explode in my heart that tells me I’m ready to have kids.  That’s how it works, right?  You look at little chubby baby faces with their little chubby baby fingers and it goes from being a novelty that you acknowledge with a curt nod and go back to your own life–take-out sushi and the umpteenth rerun of Grey’s Anatomy–while those sucker parents are left to change diapers, to a sudden inability to hold back your arms as they reach to nab said baby from its crib.  I’ve cooed over ultrasound photos, I’ve seen a baby soothed in the folds of E.’s sweatshirt, I’ve absorbed the little hiccuping sigh as a niece has fallen asleep on my chest.  But no firework, at least not yet.

In-flight Skidoo, as relayed by text message.

There are, however, seeds.  I think what I’m beginning to realize is that it’s not the dribbling, crying baby itself, but the third party you want to invite into your relationship when the love gets so big it threatens to spill over.  To this effect, E. and I have slowly accumulated a collection of stuffed animals on our bed, each with its own name and personality and particular brand of mischief to account for the little mysteries that go on in a home.

“Hey, have you seen my other striped sock?”  I’ll ask, rooting through the laundry pile.

“Skidoo…” E. will say threateningly, cuddling our little snowpants-wearing bear into his arm.

I’ll be in the bathroom and hear little scratches on the door.  I’ll open it a crack and see tiny Eloise propped up against the wall.

I’ll come home after a long day and trudge up the stairs, only to find a full-blown tableau of fluff-brained scamps, wearing our clothes, drinking from our water glasses, reading our bedside novels, gallivanting across our made bed.