This year, as I sealed the envelope of the card I was sending to my mom for Mothers Day, it occurred to me that there was once a time when I firmly intended to remain childless forever.

I still am, for now, but my intentions have changed.  For the moment, I'm quite content simply to marvel at the things hormones can do to us when they get loose.  And I mean that in the best way. 

For instance, the prospect of giving birth to someone just like my younger brother no longer suffices to quench the yearning for children.  If you knew him, you'd be astonished at that.  Not that he isn't a great guy, but having managed to keep him alive through childhood (as opposed to being throttled by any number of people) is a feat that many people feel qualifies my mother for sainthood. They may be right.  That, and the fact that she's still sane, and mostly so is my brother. 

Could I do as well, I wonder, if I had to walk in those shoes? I don't know. It seems unlikely, but I'm willing risk it.

Further evidence that my biological clock is doing its thing: 

The other day I was watching "The Scarlet Letter" for the first time.  I quite enjoyed it. (Gary Oldman was so hawt in that film! Damn!)  And in the scene where Demi Moore is giving birth to her child in the confines of an incredibly cold and uncomfortable looking 17th century prison cell without heat in the dead of winter, all I could think of was how envious I was of the character to be giving birth. 

This sort of thought doesn't occur often, but when it does it gives me pause.