How do you know when you're ready for kids?

I had dinner last night with a friend who is wondering whether she and her husband will ever be ready for kids. She's 32 years old, a high-powered career woman who works for the University of Chicago's medical center, generating business referrals for her nerdy, highly specialized neurologists, urologists and heart surgeons. She attends fancy client dinners, cruises around in her Jetta with the sunroof open, plans vacations to remote cities in Mexico months in advance, and hunkers down to watch three episodes of "Mad Men" or "Downton Abbey" in one sitting on the couch.

In short, she is me—and pretty much most of my friends. Smart, driven, highly educated, independent, adventurous, poised, passionate, successful, stylish and fiscally responsible. As my mom would say, she has a "good head on her shoulders." 

I listen over pinot noir and chicken piccata (God, do I love capers) as she tells me how she tries to picture herself with kids. She'll come home after a long day of wooing doctors, tired and just wanting to wash her face and zone out, and thinks about having to feed a child, get him or her into the bath, read a bedtime story and hold her breath as she tiptoes out of the bedroom hoping, just hoping, her little one goes right to sleep. Would she feel soooooo tired? Would she resent the intrusion into "me time"? Would it just feel like too much work?

I nod and take another bite of linguini, twirling the long strands of pasta onto my fork as she continues. After six years with her husband, they have had enough conversations to know what each other needs. He needs her to do everything: work, plan their vacations, do the grocery shopping, clean the kitchen, pick out his dress shirts, research home buying strategies, write his cover letters, etc. She needs to be appreciated for doing everything. "Babe, you're the best!" is pretty much all she needs, she says. And really, she doesn't mind doing everything because she likes being in control. I smile at her self awareness and candor. Good girl for owning that.

Are you ready?

But what if she added kids to that equation? What would happen to the spoken and unspoken division of labor that she and her husband have carefully worked out? Would she suddenly resent that he doesn't make the bed, never notices when they're out of toothpaste and can't clean the stove top to save his life? "He takes out the trash, which I really appreciate. And he always carries heavy things for me. I hate carrying heavy things," she says.

I pour myself another glass of wine (the restaurant is BYOB) and nod. I savor the tangy flavor of CVS's best bottle of Kendall Jackson as it coats my tongue before I swallow and take another sip.

And what about work? She makes six figures with her bonus and kind of likes the freedom of having all that disposable income. She's worked hard to get to where she is. Would she want to stay home? She doesn't think so. Would her husband stay home after finishing law school? Probably not. What would they do for childcare? And isn't it really expensive? How much do you pay your nanny? she asks.

$13 an hour, I tell her, which is about $2,000 a month.

She grimaces. That's like a mortgage payment, she says.

I know, I say. It sounds like a lot.

Yet here's the thing, I say, leaning in as Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg says all women should do in her new book about the lack of female leadership in corporate America. I lean in for a different reason than Sheryl, however. My message is different from hers.

Here it is: I had no idea how big my heart could feel until I had a child.

There is nothing like the smile Owen gives me when he's taught himself to stand for three seconds before falling backward onto his butt. Nothing. There is nothing like the smell of his baby head as I lay in the dark with him, stroking his hair, while he drinks his last bottle before bed. Nothing.

There is nothing like the look of anticipation he gets when I say, "One...." as I slowly remove one tab of his diaper. "Two....." as I peel back the other tab, and "threeeeeeee!" as I rip open his diaper and exclaim, "There's the pee-pee!"—a game I established to distract him from flipping over when he was four months old.

There's nothing like the feel of his little hands pawing at my shins and working his way up to my knees as he tries to climb the "Tower of Mommy" to get into my arms. There's nothing like watching him suck on his bath toys and pat the surface of the water and look over at me with pure joy as he slashes. Nothing. There's nothing like the time I blew a raspberry on his belly and he reciprocated by leaning over and blowing a raspberry on my leg. Or the grunty laugh he makes when I tickle the bottom of his feet.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I always suspected I'd enjoy having children, that they'd bring an uncomplicated sense of joy, hope, fun, and did I say joy? to my life. And it's even better than I ever imagined. Holy shit. 

Now, here's the fine print. Yes, it will change your marriage. I have never argued more with Dave than in the last year because with kids, there are just so many more things to fight about. What time should he go to bed? Should we feed him another 2 ounces when he wakes up crying? Is it okay to let him sleep in his swing or will it forever ruin him for his crib? Should we rush home to make sure he gets a good afternoon nap or is it okay to let him sleep in the stroller? Is an orange and half of a banana too much sugar for him in one sitting? Will he really die of SIDS if he sleeps with a blanket? When should we transition him from a bottle to a sippy cup?

But the experts say this. I don't care what the experts say, I want to do it like this. We should be on the same page. Right, your page. Can we agree to disagree? Yes. No. I don't know. Blah, blah, blah.

Yes, that careful balance that you worked out when you were childless, when it felt like you were so damn compatible will be turned upside down. Yes, it will be expensive. But I would pay my nanny $20 an hour if she asked (just don't tell her that) because what better thing to spend my money on than the peace of mind of knowing that Owen is in good hands?

Yes, you will struggle to balance your work life with your home life. You will question your identity. "Have you figured out whether you're a working mom or a mom who works?" my friend, Amy, a Senior VP with a 2 year old and a second on the way, asked me the other day.

You may feel pressure to stay at home. You may feel guilty that you like leaving the baby behind to go to work. No matter what you do, you will be shamed by other mothers. And you will shame yourself. Just wait until someone asks you whether you breast feed. If you don't, you will find yourself giving a long, self deprecating explanation of why not.

Parenthood is a landmine of guilt, a mirage of "the right way to do things." Attachment parents will tell you your child should sleep in your bed and be offered your breast if they so much as whimper. Weissbluth and Ferber will tell you to let your child cry it out. Every time you are tired, frustrated and confused about why your child will not eat, sleep or <<fill in the blank>>,  you will be reminded of what the experts say. Then you will be told, "Just find what works best for you." Then when you do, you will be judged again. Both by others and yourself.

Then why is this process worth it? Here's the other thing: for some people it's not. I cannot tell you how much I respect couples who look around at other parents, look back at each other and say, "Nah, not for us." I don't think parenthood is for everybody. I like that it can be a conscious choice rather than once you get married, the next logical step. I don't think parenthood is a prerequisite for joy, fulfillment or self actualization. There are other ways to forge deep connections with others, large and small, and to find meaning in your life.

I hope I don't sound like a sanctimommy, something I've been accused of before. I'm not here to say, "There, there, oh childless one, you have no idea what you are missing in your life." I don't want to perpetuate the cycle of judgment, our society's knee-jerk compulsion to shame.  I'm here to say that for me, having a child is something that feels so, so right, even though I worried and pondered the same questions as you.

Once reality came around, once Owen was here, all the mental gymnastics I did—and continue to do until I recognize it and stop myself—to figure out what being a parent would look like for me and for Dave, fell by the wayside. So many of the worries, ideas and theories are just that—worries, ideas and theories.

So, go ahead and wait. Wait until you get that glimmer of a feeling that you're ready to be a mom. Or not. (And yes, our conversation may have a greater sense of urgency if you were 39, not 32, because of that goddamn biological clock.) More and more I'm realizing that being a true feminist—and a true friend—means supporting other women no matter what it looks like, no matter what they decide to do.

A moment to sit and think

I haven't written in forever because I've been consumed with a huge project at work and adjusting to the time crunch of being a newish mom. I've often had fleeting thoughts of things I want to write about while riding on the bus to work or rushing to do an errand but then faced the reality that I really don't have the time. Sleep, laundry, and "The Good Wife" on demand have become the priorities in my downtime.

Now that project is over and I have more time -- about 1 hour and 45 minutes to be exact because Owen just went down for his morning nap after a breakfast of cheddar cheese wedges, oatmeal with applesauce and a significant amount of whining and rubbing the cereal all over his face because he was tired.

When I get these small breaks, my mind often runs through my To Do list, trying to figure out which thing I want to do. Should I clean up the mess in the kitchen? Take the clothes that Owen has outgrown down to the storage unit? Watch that documentary on Islam that a friend sent? Read the first chapter of that book I've been trying to get into for the third time? Or just sit on the couch and listen to the rain?

It's a new feeling, having so little free time. Owen is at the stage when all he wants is mama and whenever I put him down and try to, I don't know, put on underwear or apply mascara, I feel his little hands tugging at the bottom of my pajamas, trying to climb up my leg. He's 23 1/2 pounds now and no small package to carry around. It's sweet the way he lunges for me whenever someone else is holding him. I love his baby soft skin and deep brown eyes that light up when he smiles. He loves to yank at my earrings, tug at my hair and gets a studious look on his face, brow furrowed, as he picks at the buttons or snaps on my shirt as I hold him in my arms.

My little time crunch

It's also a bit overwhelming to be needed so much. I've been warned that it's fleeting, so I try to embrace it rather than resist, because I know he is a little person with fragile emotions and natural needs and I want him to feel safe and embraced.

One of my sisters-in-law often talks about whenever she and her two sisters would beg their mom to play with them, she always said she was too busy cleaning the house. I totally know that feeling of wanting to feel some semblance of control over my life by keeping the carpets vacuumed and the bathroom mirrors clean. When I walk into the living room in the mornings, bleary eyed and stumbling toward coffee, I step over a roomful of wooden trains, assorted balls, scattered board books and plastic building blocks.

I've asked Dave, who gets up with Owen every morning at 6 a.m. so I can get a few more hours of sleep, to only dump one bin of Owen's toys onto the floor instead of two, because I just can't take the clutter. It's a joke, really. Because when you have a child, your life (and living room floor) really isn't your own in both a deep, satisfying, "this is what I'm meant to be doing," but also an impatient, tapped out, "please go to sleep now so I can watch Mad Men" kind of way.  

The other day I was telling a friend how stressed I've been feeling juggling work and Owen. I summed it up by saying, "It's the typical working mom, work-life balance struggle." She responded by saying "Just because it's typical doesn't mean it's not hard."

That helped me give myself a break because just because thousands of other women are experiencing the same sense of disorder that I do every day, doesn't mean it's any easier for me. Sure, I'm not alone. But I can still take a deep breath and work in small things for myself, like steal away from work to get my nails done, sit and eat a sandwich without doing anything else but chew and sit on the couch like I'm doing now, reflecting on how I've been feeling.

Yesterday I signed up for an 8-week mindfulness based stress reduction class. Of course it has an acronym: MBSR. Every Saturday morning for two months I will enter a room with 20 other people to do relaxation exercises, meditate, twist into yoga poses and learn to be more present to every moment. When I did my intake interview with the psychologist who has been teaching the course for 18 years, he asked me three questions:

What is most important to you?
What brings you the greatest joy?
What are you most afraid of?

He told me to answer quickly without thinking, which I did. My answers:

My family.
Owen.
Recurrence of severe bouts of anxiety that I've suffered in the past.

He also asked me what I wanted to get out of the course. I told him two things: more space internally between something that happens and my reaction and greater vitality.

Since becoming pregnant more than a year and a half ago, I feel like I just haven't gotten back to my usual energy level and sense of ease in my body. During my pregnancy, I hardly exercised because I was so nauseous. Since my pregnancy, I've hardly exercised because I'm "too busy" and tired. Thus, I'm out of shape and most of the pants in my closet still don't fit. I refuse to buy news ones.

But waist size is not what this is really about. It's about that sense of well being I have after a lively Zumba or sweaty Bikram class.  These days, every time I turn around I'm catching Owen's flu or colds. Twice in the last 10 months since he's been born I've had laryngitis.

So yeah, becoming a parent has all kinds of adjustments. And with those changes, I have less drive, less energy, to just power through whatever task is before me. That's not always a bad thing, yet it does require becoming more patient and accepting of my limitations in a culture that is urging me: "Do, do, do."

Instead, I'm going the other direction. I'm going to take a class to learn to be, be, be. A coworker I told about the class asked me why I think I needed it and I said I just didn't want to look back on my life and realize I missed Owen growing up, forgot to nurture my marriage and carried around an extra 20 pounds because my mind was somewhere else.

I'm going to do my darndest to live more fully and to be more accepting of the times when I feel tapped and empty.  It's the least I can do today.

Confessions of an older mom

Here is a guest blog post I wrote for Role Reboot, a website dedicated to gender and relationship issues. It's my take on what it means to be a ""woman of advanced maternal age": http://www.rolereboot.org/family/details/2012-12-confessions-of-an-older-mom

Work = misery?

There's an essay circulating the blogosphere written by Linds Redding, an advertising executive in New Zealand who recently died of esophageal cancer at age 52. In his essay, "A Short Lesson in Perspective," Redding comes to the conclusion that he duped himself into believing that his work was more important than sleep, holidays, birthdays, school recitals and anniversary dinners.

It's the now-that-I'm-dying-I-realize-I-spent-too-much-time-at-the-office cautionary tale that seems to surface in the collective consciousness of the rat race Western world every few months or so, much like the recent article in The Guardian about a hospice nurse who wrote a book called the "Top Five Regrets of the Dying." The biggest regret, particularly among men, was missing out on watching their children grow up and spending QT with their wives because they were too busy working.

These articles always make me think about my relationship to work and whether it's true that we define ourselves too much by what we do. More specifically, I wonder whether I'm so busy "doing" that I'm not spending enough time "being." My answer is typically yes, although I've gotten much better at it in recent years, both by force and by choice.

I've always been good about taking vacations and spending time with family and friends. I've never understood coworkers who brag about working while in Florida at their cousin's wedding or never taking a day off. I don't think they're noble. I think they're stupid. (I'm still working on my issues with judgment.) It also bothers me when people can't seem to turn off their Blackberries during lunch. Are they really that important?

One thing that's helped cure me of my addiction to work is getting fired (that's the forced remediation part). Part of the reason I was fired from a job I loved four years ago was my passion for my work, which sometimes veered into self righteousness that wasn't appreciated by upper management (but should have been, dammit. I WAS WORKING SO HARD.)

I always thought that if I was really good at what I did, I would be valued. Not true. You have to be good at what you do and get along with people, especially those you consider impossible. They are the ones who will come back to bite you. And if you have to choose one: being good at what you do or getting along with people, you're better off getting along with people — a reality that perfectionists like me hate to face. Can't my work just speak for itself?

Getting fired has helped me tread more lightly in my current job and not care so much. I still strive for excellence but I'm not as intent on being right (which gets exhausting by the way). I shut down my computer by 6 p.m. and rarely check work email at home. I mean, it's not like I'm a doctor or IT support. What kind of writing emergency is going to happen?

Late nights at the office are also fewer and farther between, along with working on weekends, particularly now that I have a child. The other day I was sitting on the couch with my laptop doing something I'm sure was super important when Dave brought Owen in from taking his nap. Owen's cheeks were red from being smooshed into the mattress and he had that stunned I-just-woke-up-and-my-brain's-not-working-yet look on his face. I always smile when he looks like this because man, can I relate.

Dave put him down on his playmat and instead of ignoring Owen and letting him entertain himself like I sometimes do, I closed my laptop and stood up. I switched my iPod to my favorite pop songs and laid on the floor next to Owen. I took his arms and bopped them back and forth to "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen and "We Found Love" by Rihanna. I put my hands under his hips and jiggled them up and down to the beat of "Payphone" by Maroon 5.

Owen giggled and smiled, even as I sang to him that "We are never, ever, ever getting back together" along with Taylor Swift. It was the most fun I'd had in weeks.

Disconnecting from work and being in the moment like this is not something I'm always willing or able to do. That's another thing I've learned about "being" vs. "doing." It's a process. Sometimes I'd rather stay immersed in some project than play with Owen. And that's okay. The more I notice and accept the fact that I'm caught up in the compulsion to do at the expense of the ability to be, the more I want to play with Owen later. The human psyche is funny that way.

Another point that I appreciated in Redding's essay is his discussion of how the Internet age has sped up the turnaround time in the advertising industry so much that he and his colleagues no longer had the luxury of sleeping on an idea. As a consequence, they became more conservative. Without the time to let inspiration marinate into innovation, they stopped taking creative risks and fell back on tried and true techniques. It perfectly illustrates the cost of "doing" at the expense of "being."

This is my favorite part:

The trick to being truly creative, I’ve always maintained, is to be completely unselfconscious. To resist the urge to self-censor. To not-give-a-shit what anybody thinks. That’s why children are so good at it. And why people with Volkswagens, and mortgages, Personal Equity Plans and matching Lois Vuitton luggage are not. It takes a certain amount of courage, thinking out loud. And is best done in a safe and nurturing environment. Creative departments and design studios used to be such places, where you could say and do just about anything creatively speaking, without fear of ridicule or judgment. It has to be this way, or you will just close up like a clam shell. It’s like trying to have sex with your mum listening outside the bedroom door.

Forget the fact that I have both a Volkswagen and a mortgage, I laughed aloud at the part about having sex with your mom outside the bedroom door. Talk about inspiring nothing but inhibition. In my quest to become better at "being," there's a safe and nurturing place I go every Wednesday night where I can speak freely without fear of ridicule or judgment (okay, sometimes we judge each other a little).

If you don't have such a place, go find one. Otherwise you'll end up having to write your own now-that-I'm-dying-I-realize-I-spent-too-much-time-at-the-office essay.

Driving Mr. Owen

If there is a hell, it would look something like this: You would be assigned to a car, most likely with automatic transmission, with a screaming infant in the back. Then you would be directed to drive around one of those big traffic circles they have in Europe for all of eternity in bumper to bumper traffic.

Why do I say this? Riding in the car with Owen is one of my least favorite activities as a parent. It starts with the fact that he doesn't like his car seat. The second he gets wind of the fact that I am transferring him from his stroller into his car capsule he starts to whine. As I struggle to pull the straps out from under him and pull them over his chest, he takes one look at me, arches his back and tries to make a break for it.

"I know, I know," I croon as I push his belly down to steady him and pull the fastener from underneath his padded behind. "I know you don't like this. I'm so sorry baby but it's the law." As if validation will do the trick.

Once I've snapped him into the harness that makes him look like a fighter pilot or an astronaut about to be shot into outer space, his whine becomes louder and louder and builds into a full blown wail. If Dave is driving, I'll sit in the back next to Owen trying to soothe and distract him. "Shhhh, Shhhh, Shhhh," I'll shush into his ear, pressing my face next to his like I learned in the video of Dr. Karp, the so-called Baby Whisperer pediatrician, who wrote "The Happiest Baby on the Block."

That doesn't work so I rummage through the diaper bag and pull out Sophie. I start squeaking her in Owen's face. He just cries harder, now with his eyes closed and tears, real tears, streaming down his face. I try handing him his cloth star with the crinkly paper in the corner. But he can't even see me. He won't open his eyes no matter how many times I say his name. His face is beet red and he's gone, screaming with his eyes closed in an alternate universe I can't reach. I feel like Leslie Nielsen trying to calm the hysterical woman in "Airplane" by slapping her repeatedly across the face. But of course, I don't.

Instead I yell to Dave to turn the CD player to Track 1, Owen's favorite Elizabeth Mitchell song. She's a children's folk singer with the most beautiful soothing voice.

              I've got a friend in Baltimore, Little Liza Jane
              Streetcars running by her door, Little Liza Jane
              Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane
              Oh Little Liza, Little Liza Jane

Owen hesitates for a moment, recognizing the melody as something he likes. I frantically sing along with the chorus, trying to get him to grasp my fingers so I can dance his arms back and forth like he loves when he's in a good mood. I hold my breath to see if the pause will actually take. It doesn't. His face crumples up and he starts wailing again. I exhale in a big sigh, my insides rattled. I struggle to calm myself by taking another deep breath. He won't take a pacifier anymore so that's out. There is only one thing left to do: feed him. No wonder he's in the 90th percentile for weight.

I reach into the diaper bag and pull out his bottle and unscrew the cap, then I rummage around for the bottled water and the blue plastic container with pre-measured formula. I focus on keeping my arms steady as I pour 4 ounces of water into the bottle, then tap tap the formula into the bottle, praying that Dave doesn't hit a bump and send the water and formula powder flying down my shirt and jeans like last time. That was fun. Especially considering that I only have one pair of jeans that fit me right now and I had nothing casual to wear for days.

I take another deep breath as Owen continues to scream. I screw the nipple on tight and shake the solution until the powder dissolves. I think about the study of Buddhist monks in which a scientist took scans of their brains while they meditated to find the neurological origins of tranquility and oneness. They should try it with a screaming baby in the room.

I put the nipple into Owen's mouth. His brain registers the feel of the pointed plastic and he starts to suck. It's suddenly quiet, except for the stuttered sound of the air expelled from his nose as his chest heaves up and down as he starts to settle down after a long cry. Holding his bottle to his mouth with my left hand, I grab the burp cloth with my other hand and dab the wetness from his cheeks. He closes his eyes and starts to make his happy gulping noises. I lay my head back on the seat and close my eyes.

I can take the massive poops that explode out of his diaper and up his back. I can handle the gallons of spit up on the shirts I just washed. I don't mind picking up the dozens of toys that are always strewn across the living room. It's the uncontrollable crying that makes me want to jump out of a moving car. All I can think is what I've told my nephew and niece for years whenever they've acted up: "It's a good thing you're cute."

A sense of outrage

Last night's presidential debate got me fired up and I'm going to do something I rarely do—I'm going to write about politics. I realize that most of the people who read my blog (friends and family) are liberal, so I'm preaching to the choir. But I can't help it. 

I had a journalism professor who used to tell us, "Never lose your sense of outrage." It was her battle cry to rally us to serve as watchdogs of government, to illuminate social issues, to challenge the comfortable and give voice to the underprivileged. Did that make us part of the "liberal media?" Maybe. Is that a bad thing? I don't think so.

In the pre-Fox News days, were U.S. journalists too liberal? Not in my opinion. If they were guilty of anything, I'd call it being human. In the 1960s and 1970s, Walter Cronkite was considered "the most trusted man in America." Was he a liberal? You betcha. He opposed the Vietnam War and later criticized President Bush's invasion of Iraq. He advocated for campaign finance reform, sided with President Clinton during his impeachment trial and denounced the "War on Drugs" as a policy failure.

I would argue that anyone who is drawn to journalism, anyone who chooses to spend their days covering government leaders, wars and public issues like crime, education, health care and immigration are already more socially minded than your average American. I know I came to the job with liberal leanings and became even more so throughout my years of reporting.

Early in my career, I covered court cases for a newspaper in Paterson, NJ. I wrote about murder trials, government corruption, child abuse, sexual assault and juvenile delinquency. I loved covering the legal system because there was inherent drama in every story. It was where the lofty philosophical principles of our Founding Fathers met the messy reality of everyday people. Oh, the humanity.

I sat through hours of testimony by medical examiners explaining the entry and exit wounds of murder victims. (It was much less exciting than what you see on "Law & Order"). I watched as one gang member after another was sentenced to life in prison for shooting a rival gang member over a dispute about a dice game, drug deal or smack talk about his girlfriend.

Then I'd cover a hearing for a chiropractor charged with fraud for stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from insurance companies by billing them for patients he'd never treated. As the chiropractor hung his head and told the judge his transgressions were the result of his need to support an expensive cocaine habit, I'd shake my own head as he was sentenced only to probation.

I rarely sympathize with insurance companies, but economic crimes like his hurt all of us through higher premiums. The lighter sentences repeatedly doled out in white-collar crime versus street crimes sickened me. It reeked of racism and social privilege.

So where am I going with this? Good question. Sorry, I got sidetracked reminiscing about the good old days. Now back to our regularly scheduled program...the presidential debate and my sense of outrage about some of the issues in this election:

Abortion: Obama and Romney didn't talk about abortion during last night's debate. That subject was well covered during the vice presidential debate when moderator Martha Raddatz asked Joe Biden and Paul Ryan how their Catholic faith influences their positions on abortion. Ryan said he would only support abortion in the case of rape or incest. Biden said he doesn't support abortion personally but wouldn't impose his views on other people (also known as women).

I just want to say that offering to provide exceptions for rape and incest victims is totally off point and frankly, maddening. The number of women who get abortions under these conditions is so small that even discussing abortion in this way is ridiculous. And let's say we did pass a law outlawing abortion except in cases of rape and incest. Can you imagine the lengths that women would have to go to to prove it? Would she have to file a police report? Undergo a forensic rape exam? Produce evidence to support her claims that her uncle is a pervert?

What if she didn't have these things? What if she went home and cried in the shower instead of going to the emergency room? What if she was too scared to tell anyone because she blamed herself? What if, as is the reality in so many of these cases, it's just a matter of he-said, she-said? AND WHY IS THIS ANYBODY'S BUSINESS? (Yes, I'm yelling.)

Abortion is about a woman's right to choose. Period. And I say this as a new mother who teared up when I saw the blob of future baby on the ultrasound screen at six weeks and heard the heartbeat— just like Ryan recounted doing with his wife while justifying his advocacy for "life" during the VP debate.

Here's a news flash: It takes another 34 weeks for a woman's body to create the bones, organs, muscles and all the other systems that turn that blob of cells into a squalling human. And at least an additional 18 years of feeding, housing, educating and mentoring that human to turn him or her into a contributing member of society. By virtue of biology and automatic default (when the father is MIA or unfit), these sacrifices fall to women.

That's why it should be a woman's decision whether to carry a pregnancy to term. Pregnancies happen under all kinds of circumstances. Whether those circumstances are conducive to child rearing is a woman's choice. Lord knows that conservatives don't want to fund public health care or other social programs that may help her. They don't even want insurance companies to be required to pay for contraception. Viagra? Yes, that's a medical problem. But the Pill? Sorry little lady.

Single mothers: Somehow when asked about whether he'd support a ban on assault weapons like AK-47s, Romney slipped in a comment about how parents should teach their kids that they should get married before having babies. Excuse me? Is the prevalence of single motherhood in this country really the result of a lack of parental guidance?

What about poverty? Raging hormones? Limited access to birth control? Or wanting to have children but not finding the right person?

As any woman can attest, some men are only suitable for a one-night stand or even a one-year stand but not a lifetime partnership. It's called the sexual revolution. And it really was an improvement over the sweaty backseat groping, shotgun weddings and quiet misery of the picture-perfect "Leave It To Beaver" families in the 1950s.

I'm not dissing marriage or two-parent households. I like being married and I am half of a two-parent household. And it's not because my parents told me to. If anything, my parent's marriage and subsequent divorce made me wary of the institution. Let's just say that forever is too long for some couples.

I just get uncomfortable when those with "conservative values" start pushing marriage as the answer to our social and reproductive issues. Life (and human nature) is much more complicated.

I remember seeing a poster on the wall of a bus during my morning commute of a couple gazing into each other's eyes with a slogan advocating marriage. I don't even remember what the marriage campaign slogan said, I just remember thinking, Have you seen some of the men we women will sleep with? Date? Reproduce with? You don't want to add marriage to that equation.

For women, having the wherewithall to get and stay married is a matter of socioeconomics, education, career opportunity, self esteem and luck. Having the time and money to do enough therapy to learn productive ways to communicate, manage emotions and resolve conflict doesn't hurt either.

Like most things worth doing, the path to partnership is a process of trial-and-error. It's not as easy as a poster on a bus or a sound bite during a debate. Just ask Cinderella.

Immigration, health care and the economy: I have more to say on these topics but I somehow lost track of time and got caught up talking about the so-called women's issues. For now, I'll give it a rest. My two minutes are up. Thanks for listening.

Owen's imperfections: A short love story

It's morning and I'm lying on the couch with Owen, my back propped up against the end of the couch holding him up by his hands, his feet on my belly. As I pull him toward me repeatedly to kiss his chest, his belly, his forehead and the tip of his nose — all of the places that make him smile, giggle and drool — I survey his bare body, covered only by his diaper.

Owen has a freckle next to his belly button. I love this freckle. It's small but stands out against the vast whiteness of his belly. There's something about it that looks so tender and vulnerable. I cup his feet in my hands and run my fingers over his toes. In between each one I find the fluffy residue of sock fuzz. When I'm really having an OCD moment, I clean between his toes with a Q-tip after his bath. With babies, it's the crevices that get overlooked unless you're really paying attention.

I study his face and note that his right ear does stick out more than the other. I'd never noticed this until Dave's Aunt Betty pointed it out a few weeks ago at Dave's grandmother's 100th birthday party. It's the ear he tugs at when he's tired. I joked with Betty that I would be sure to have it tacked back before his 5th birthday.

As I continue to gaze at Owen's face, I notice that the pigment on his left eyelid is still a darker pink than the other one. It was more prominent when he was born, almost red. When I looked it up in a baby book they said it would fade with time. They called it a stork bite.   

On his hands he has those baby dimples above each of his fingers. Sometimes I find little scabs there. I think it's from chewing on his fists. But he doesn't have teeth yet so I'm not sure what in his soft, moist, gummy mouth could cause tiny abrasions. 

As I run my hands down his chubby legs, I see that he's got bruises and rug burns on one of his knees. I'm guessing they are the result of him flipping over on his stomach in his crib, on his play mat and on the carpet. There's just no stopping him.

The most striking thing about Owen is his hair. It's the first thing strangers remark on when they see him ("Wow, he has so much hair!") But the other day I noticed that he has bald patches on the sides of his head, right above his ears. At first I thought he was starting to lose his hair like everyone has warned me would happen. But when I flip back through his baby pictures on my iPhone photo library, it looks like he's always had those lighter patches. I guess I just never noticed.

I flip him around and study him from the back. His neck looks like a block stuck on top of his shoulders. I've often thought that the back of the neck is one of the more vulnerable parts of the body, like the underbelly of a dragon. Maybe it's because it holds up our big brains. And when you're looking at the back of someone's neck, they may not even know that you're watching them.

I run my fingers through the dark hair at the nape of Owen's neck and uncover a patch of red skin on his scalp that may be a birth mark. He has another pinkish spot higher up on his head that is smaller, about the size of a raspberry. You can only see it if you look closely.

As I take this visual inventory, these are the things I want to remember about my son. These are the things I want to think about when he is a teenager, gives me monosyllabic answers when I try to make conversation and won't let me touch him. I want to remember all the bumps and bruises, the blemishes and cowlicks — all the things that make him unique and yet like the rest of us, so very human.