BANISHMENT 2: Understanding the Bowling Ball Syndrome

There are a number of things that seem very natural to crave. Things like ice cream, Billy Reid jackets, and David Beckham pantless. But never on that list would I ever have expected the offspring affection - the desire to be sperminated, grow to the size of a reasonably fashionable camel hump, then pop out a screaming, wailing, non-talking, always sobbing creature that takes your money and your milk.

But something happens to women in their mid-twenties to thirties where they see drooling creatures in corduroy and have the innate desire to lavish said creatures with hugs, kisses, and excessively expensive Blues Clues toys. They see other pregnant women who look sweaty with their built-in-bowling balls and mistake perspiration for a healthy glow. They begin, heaven knows why, to want the bowling balls for themselves, along with the pants with elastic waistlines, the shooting back pains, and the doctor's orders to immediately stop with the drinking, smoking, and heroine shooting.

For most of my life I've been able to avoid the offspring craving, attributing its rise to women who are (a) bored, or (b) needing a 'legitimate' excuse to quit working. I once tried babysitting, but only stuck with it as long as I did thanks to the free food and satellite television. But lately I see small, non-screaming children, and I have the desire to steal them. To put them in my pocket, make a break for the door, and then play tea party for about two hours or until said-child wets her pants and must be returned to her mother for cleansing. I see small overalls and suspenders, tiny toboggans, and hipster kids boots and I immediately want to go and clothe the nearsest toddler in today's overly-priced fashions.

The non-shocking truth is I'm currently, in no remote way, equipped to be a mother. That shiznit is on severe lock down because if I were to inherit a squirly-wirly today, he/she (and chances are it'll be a 'he' because God knows there's no way I could survive  all that pink) would grow up drinking coffee and watching too many episodes of Californication. He'd sleep in the bathtub, watch local music in moderately smoky venues, and find his only perk in life to be that he grew up well dressed.

But these feelings of Bowling Ball Syndrome, while entirely fleeting, are an indicator of something shocking: I do have a baby maker and it's ready - albeit not for another 5, 10, 15 years - to be used. But it's there. It's warming up and having awkward wet dreams about the sandbox.