My Baby

My husband and I attended a party last night; most there were younger than us, what we like to call Prime Baby Years. Three of the women were pregnant, the others had small toddlers running about. They were all very cute (the kids and the pregnant women), but for the most part that’s what the conversation revolved around. My brother calls this phenomenon see-the-baby-hold-the-baby-touch-the-baby-the-baby-the-baby-the-baby. :-)

My husband and I are happily child free, although we do very much enjoy inhabiting the aunt and uncle role, and I occasionally befriend an external child. We do like kids. And we understand that when you have them they are, especially at first, your entire life. They should be! Raising the next generation to become productive and loving humans is the most important job in the world.

But there are other pursuits, and other worthy endeavors. I’ve just finished a novel. The gestation, if you can stand the metaphor, was hard. There is still much work to do in rearing it to adulthood. And I’m as proud as proud can be, although I have no pictures of it.

I was bursting last night, hoping someone would ask me how I was. I admit it; I wanted to brag. But no…all conversation was about earthbound, or yet to be earthbound, children.

Unless you are an artist, or think of your work as creative, you don’t name what you produce as the children of your soul. Additionally, some people will believe your offspring isn't special. This is particularly true for a writer. Often people volunteer that “they always wanted to write a book”, or “they have a book in them if only they had the time.” (These same people often think they can sing. Try it. Ask them.)

By the end of the party I was OK. I don’t have to have people asking about my baby. It’s a secret love. And fortunately, a love I can share with my husband and sister, both of whom are writers.

Good enough for me.