I don't have kids, and at this stage in my life, I don't think they're happening. I've long given up on the whole pregnancy and passing on the family name thing, but somewhere inside I still harbor traces of wanting a Chinese baby girl. My inner Women's Studies minor gets activated and I get indignant and want to spoil my own little one and zip her into a pink snowsuit.
Anyway, last night, after seeing the movie Hitch (pretty damn good), feasting on chicken taquitos and fresh guacamole at Baja Fresh (their Salsa Baja is like crack to me) my husband decided we should bring dessert to our friends' house. Since we are both trying to shrink, we brought fruit. And it wasn't bad. Nor was the visit, probably because their three kids had already gone to bed, and other than a few wailing protests from upstairs, we didn't hear a peep, which meant we got to talk like grownups all night.
So there we were, slurping down melon chunks, talking about C going back to work when the youngest turns five, when she expressed her concern that if she worked far away, who would help her kids if there was a crisis at school one day.
And I sat there and didn't say a word. My mouth wanted to open and remind them that I'm a mere 10 minutes away, that I work from home, and that my Beetle is kid-friendly and has at least 15 Happy Meal toys in the back. Oh, and that I would be happy to help out in an emergency.
But all my car-loving mind could conjure up was the thought of one of those kids barfing all over my car.
So there it is. I am unfit for even substitute parenthood.