Babies will be the death of me.

I don’t mean that a baby will, in the still of the night, track me down and kill me. It’s just that the emotions evoked by the word “babies” is a sadness that will take me out.

I love kids. When I was small, I probably didn’t know what having a baby meant — but I loved them in a way that only a small child could. Heather Kathleen was my first child. She was the love of my life — she was my baby. She was also a Hispanic Cabbage Patch Kid — but I didn’t care.

Other dolls came along — but the message was the same — I loved my babies.

Since that time, I have been involved in children’s activities/ministries. I’ve taught Sunday School, I’ve led conferences and I’ve baby sat. I’m good with kids. I was able to manage a kindergarten class of 14–17 kids on my own. Uncles, aunts and cousins have left me in charge of their kids for entire days — and I haven’t lost any yet. My name was one of the first words that Baby A, Baby M, and Baby S said. Those 3 babies are still my babies and I love them to death (and spoil them as such!)

But I want my own babies. And that’s not in the cards. And so I am sad.

All around me people are having babies — all around me I’m reminded that I don’t have my own. Even Gmail seems to be mocking me.

I still love kids. I’m really good with them. Three weeks ago I hung out with some random kids and had a great time. He ended the trip by saying “You (trainedmonk3y) are really nice. You listen and you are cool. I want to wish you a Happy Early Mother’s Day”

Sigh! Babies are going to be the death of me.