Oh Baby!

I bring home my two plants, an African violet and a pothos and tell Mom while we’re cooking dinner and having drinks, “You have to take good care of them when I’m in India. They’re like my…”

“Babies?” my father finishes the sentence.

“…Yeah” I reply, hesitantly. “I think I do love them like they were my babies.”

I’m a little shocked that these words even cross my mind, let alone leave my mouth. My plants don’t get colicky, need to be changed, walked or played with. But somehow the simple acts of watering them, making sure the window lets enough light in, or finding a “babysitter” for them while I go on vacation is enough to tap into some freaky inherent maternal instinct. Why does it make me happy when I notice the limbs of my pothos are longer and lush, or that the violet is making new flowers?

Uh oh. Am I being conditioned for parenthood? Is this the first stage of an irreversible road towards being “mom?” What the hell comes next, pets? I pour myself another glass of wine.

I bought these plants in the beginning of the summer despite my reservations. Would they grow healthy? Would I be able to provide them with what they need? Is my house the right environment for raising plants? I’ve tried raising plants before and failed. There were the Christmas cacti that wouldn’t bloom and the tulips that wilted and browned, the mum, whose flowers dried up like raisins. It was obvious to me I was just not ready to parent flowers. But now I suppose, I am, much to my anxiety, at the plant stage.

I am not making it up. I watched it happen yesterday with one of my oldest friends, Jessie, who happens also to be in town.

“I really feel one day I’ll settle down with him, get married and have kids,” Jessie says about an ex-boyfriend

Jessie, a now New Yorker boasting an array of highly artistic tattoos, body piercing and a confident, quirky wardrobe, has never wanted kids. In fact, she was always been more adverse and disgusted by the infantile kind than anyone I’ve known. Jess talked about babies how most people talk about spiders, vomit or snakes. I could picture her drop-kicking one if it even crinkled its nose the wrong way. So you can imagine my surprise when yesterday, when I visited her and our friend Lisa, and she springs this on me.

“Whoa. Wait a minute here. What??” All I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth on this topic is, “I fucking hate babies.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time around really cool young couples, they’re so down to earth. A whole bunch of Suicide Girls (nude, artsy Internet modeling) have been popping them out too. It’s been making me change my mind.”

Jessie, apparently, has been spending lots of time meeting older, twenty-somethings. She’s been meeting cool people in pairs, not as singles, and many of them have babies. She said it seems to her that all the cool people are finding each other and teaming up. I think this is the first time Jessie realized that being a parent does not automatically equate with being old and uncool. The ones she’s been meeting are heavily tattooed, into holistic parenting – things like bed sharing, organic feeding – experimental parenting – and even while starting families, they have managed to maintain their radness.

I’m beginning to realize maternal instinct is not a choice. It’s kind of like when we’re kids we hate vegetables. They avoid them like the plague, refuse to eat them. The mere presence of a piece of broccoli for a kid will send him running or into a fit of temper. Likewise, one day young women are thinking about what pair of shoes to buy next, how to get better grades, or who their next potential hot hookup might be and the next day they are unable to control the urge to hold a stranger’s kid, put together the cutest baby outfits, or wonder about which guy might make the best dad.

All it took to change Jessie's mind was the realization that there are ways to have kids and still be your unique self and have fun. In her mind, she’s likely picturing herself with a perfect angel child that she can bring up her way. She’ll still be able to pursue her art and maintain her identity.

But in my mind, I’m still picturing disaster. The kid is wild, crying, throwing things, and being a typical obnoxious baby. Jessie realizes just how much does have to be sacrificed for a kid and once again wishes she could dropkick the little twerp. Of course, I keep this to myself. Who am I to spoil her idealism and change of heart. I hope it works out. All I know is, this change in her is probably more beyond her control than she realizes. It’s biological and animalistic – the next freaky phase in being a woman, which we are all beginning to experience little by little.

Plants first. Then pets. Then… shit.

I have to leave them with my mother, and hope she’ll remember to feed them healthy, give them enough light, not spoil them too much.

“Don’t worry,” my mother tries to assure me, “I know what I’m doing; I have years of experience with this.” I’m not convinced. What if she’s the kind of grandmother that lets the kids eat all the cookies and stay up too late?

Too much? Probably. I finish my wine and eat dinner with my parents. Were they ready? Did I come out OK?

Whatever. I have plans to go out tonight. The stars have aligned and my three best friends from high school and I are miraculously all town at the same time. After dinner, I make one more drink and look for something to wear. I pop in some loud music, style my hair, put on some makeup and pump myself up by dancing around my room to classic rock as I down the last drops of my vodka and grapefruit juice.

My friends pull into the driveway and honk for me to join them. I rush downstairs. On my way out, by old woman asks, “When will you be back.”

“I don’t know! Maybe tomorrow,” I hurriedly reply.

“Oh. Well, be safe,” she calls to her baby as I’m out the door. I’m not thinking about plants, or pets, or babies anymore.

I’m thinking about carelessness and fun and friends and being still so young. The rest of it can wait for me.