In my lifetime, my feelings about motherhood run the spectrum from ambivalent to eager. I love babies, their chubby legs and concerned faces and pugilist’s fists; I am actively distressed by toddlers, their lack of reason, their id-ness, their sociopathy; I love older children who can talk about school and the books they’re reading; and teenagers remain an utterly unknown—and intimidating—horizon. A hypochondriac, I am terrified of pregnancy and its medical risks. A hedonist, I don’t want to give up whiskey cocktails, sushi, soft cheeses.
