I’m at age in which some women develop a twitchy obsession fueled by the echo of ticking clock in their brains. I can’t hear it. Maybe it’s beyond the spectrum of my hearing frequency, or maybe the white noise of life’s minor complications prevents me from recognizing the sound. There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that. Hearing or not hearing the sound.

My persona prevents me from attempting tasks, important tasks, I will completely and utterly suck at. Sure, I participate in book club, and inevitably miss a laundry list of pertinent points contingent to the plot because I get my head wrapped around some non-essential and typically ghost like element. Yet, I still participate, because I know I will learn from my failure at book club, I’m rather accustom to making an ass out of myself, but most importantly, my inability to grasp the existential crisis occurring on the pages will not impair the emotional development of another or cease them from expanding the skills necessary to interact in polite society. Raising a child, on the other hand, has too much contingent upon being reasonably competent.

I learned to be a low maintenance child. My Dad traveled on business, and Mother worked long hours. I was never neglected, but I did spend many hours around adults, and become emotionally self-sufficient as a result. It worked out well at the time. My parents needed me to be low maintenance, because it was time in which they needed to take care of themselves. I’m not bitter.

Anymore.

As I’ve gotten older I have better understood, if not empathized the changes people go through and the notion that for adults to make better families they need things reserved for themselves that on the surface might appear to be selfish but really provide a level of personal functionality and consequently making them better people, thus trickling down into family life making the experience more bearable for all involved.

Economy of emotion coupled with my inability to share my self, lead made me worry I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give a little person my undivided attention when it was needed, or that I would feel so drained from giving them so much of my self, there wouldn’t be any me left over for me. A partial commitment isn’t good enough. It’s a selfish attitude, but it’s also an honest acknowledgment of self.

When I see them, babies with their pudgy limbs, and flailing hands, and gassy smiles, I see parental pride, hidden potential, and the incomplete features of a being that will profess both love and hate to the parents for years to come, but I also see frailty that leaks all sorts of disgusting things from it’s orifices. While a relatively low percentage of babies have actually been broken by someone as oafish as me, I cannot tolerate pressure of new parents glaring at me while a try to adequately support the neck, and properly mirror their joy at seeing this living breathing extension of their union with endless potential and a nose like its grandfather. I’m happy for them. For their health, for the joys, and the new experiences to come. I just don’t want to hold it until they’ve torn the tag off and learned the with all that frailty is a remarkable durability. Cartilage is king.

The closest I come to hearing the clock, is visiting animal shelter, or when lady with the blue merle Australian shepherds passes with her dogs. It’s not the same, but it is closely linked to the desire to nurture, stimulate, and foster companionship. There is much to be said for the returned affection, the ease of communication, the relief of not navigating the complexity of adolescent relationships, or maintaining a level of zen calmness necessary in teaching a teenager to drive safely, but mostly for not scarring someone for life.