And I haven't even given birth yet

Nobody warned me how painful parenting can be.

Seriously. I love my job. LOOOOOVE my job. Hell, you might say I live my job many days. But more and more, during the few moments in any given day that I actually have to think about something other than work, I find myself aching for The Boy. His new haircut doesn't help. Judybat took him to a big-boy barbershop in what we Portlanders call Hollywood (why does every reasonably sized West Coast city have a Hollywood? Anyone? Anyone?) and got him the Number 4, the U.S. Air Force Officer. As Judybat put it, he's the picture you would find in a 1950s Webster's dictionary under the listing for, 'Boy.'

Today, I was walking back from an appointment, feeling very Lois Lane with my trenchcoat flapping just so and my notebook tucked neatly in my pocket. Then a group of preschoolers rounded the corner, coming right toward me. They were holding hands, and walking in these neat little lines, and looked like a group of happy little ducklings following their mommy. Every little boy had the Number 4, the U.S. Air Force Officer. I nearly cried right there. And yet, when I got back to the office, I became engrossed in what I was doing and wound up staying until 7 p.m. because there was something I really needed to get done.

As I said, I love my job. In my free time, I read about it. In my sleep, I dream about it -- good dreams, mostly. But all the same, I pine for the child. How do people, women especially what with those maternal instincts that I really do believe are buried deep in our genetic code, do this? How do you balance work and family and all the good stuff you're supposed to do before you die? I wish I knew the answer. Instead, I'm going to go downstairs and stare at the kid in his sleep. It's creepy, but it's love.