To be, or not to be. Pregnant, that is.

There seems to be a lot of talk going on in the blogosphere about babies recently – whether to start one, or another, or if one would be a fit parent at all. I’ve got to say that, for me, having a baby was possibly the best thing I’ve ever done. Not the most fun, or the least painful, but the best. I knew I was ready, though. And if you’re not ready mentally to accept that responsibility and the change that the wee sprog will wreak on your previously well-ordered life, then it could possibly be the worst part of your life.

I’ve wanted to be a mommy practically since I began ovulating. I’ve always been all about the babies – their soft skin, tiny fingers, and round kissable bellies. Changing diapers never fazed me, although I draw the line at buying cloth ones. I really don’t want to scrape, soak, and wash diapers every day. Because with the amazing amount of excrement that one of those tiny creatures produces, one would be washing diapers every day. Bathtime for Peanut was always fun – everything was fascinating for her. She loved it when I’d hold the washcloth up above her head and squeeze out the water in drops. After bath, there was always sweet-smelling lotion and silky powder to apply to a wriggly baby body. Then there was bedtime, nursing my baby to sleep in a glide rocker while sleepytime music played, her limp and quiescent body heavy in my arms. One of my favorite parts of the bedtime ritual was cuddling her fuzzy little head in the curve of my neck afterwards while I coaxed a burp from her.

Now that she’s an independent preschooler, our rituals have changed. She’s weaned, potty-trained, and no longer fascinated by washcloths or rubber duckies. We have a story, pats on the back, and hugs & kisses. I know that that will change again as she gets older, and I look forward to that. Now, instead of worrying if she’s ready for solid food, I have to read up on how to get preschoolers to eat more vegetables. I have more strategies than a five-star general, with much less success. I have to monitor the TV programs that Peanut views, the nutritional content of her lunches, and her father’s penchant for foul language.

Peanut is a huge responsibility. Her needs come before everyone else’s. When she’s sick, the world may as well stop turning, as we all take time out to tend to her sniffles. If she’s awake far into the night, so am I. I am the packer of lunches, the maker of meals, and the dispenser of snacks (healthy and unhealthy). I provide clean clothes, agonize over choosing safe toys, and sanction all videos entering my daughter’s domain. Can you imagine if I didn’t want this responsibility?

I have always believed that having a child should be a choice, as the responsibility is awesome, vast, and ginormous. I can only imagine how bitter and resentful I’d be had I not been prepared to accept this burden of parenthood. But, as I said, I was ready. I’d do it again, too, were the Mister willing. The good parts of being a parent far outweigh the bad. Bear in mind, though, that my Peanut is only 3 years old. I’m not a seasoned veteran, nor have I made it through the teen years. But from my perspective, as I said before, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

Next time, though, I’ll get the epidural earlier. Like conception.