It’s one of those things where you don’t really feel it until you think about it and then suddenly it rushes over you like a typhoon. Then out of nowhere you feel it, the gentle grasp of a tiny hand on your shoulder, the heart-tugging wail of a seeking infant reverberating through your breast. But you’ve never had a baby before. And while you’ve probably held a few, you’ve never felt the feeling of having one of your own. So why does it hit like someone’s dropped the weight of the moon on your chest? Why does that yearning, that longing, just pop up out of the blue while you’re trying to go about your day? Like a prodding from a distant part of your soul, reminding you, not-so-gently, that this desire, this imperative, precedes you. And regardless of whether or not the time is right, or if the world seems to be falling apart, or if you wonder whether or not there really is a tomorrow, a very real part of you craves this connection. A very real part of you aches to mother, to nurture, to guide another soul through this dizzying labyrinth we call life. And some people may think of it as a kind of insanity, but it’s the trust, realest, most natural urge there is. To create more life. And though you fight this urge, keep pushing it back a year or two or four, while the baby fever builds, while you watch with longing at other people loving, laughing, fighting, and crying with their literal heartbeats, your heart can’t help but feel, I want that, too.