STRANGER THAN FICTION: AH, THE SOUND OF PITTER-PATTER FROM TINY LITTLE FEET

And to think, I once despised people who put their kids on leashes.

I'm approaching my 29th year of life and my marriage is in its third. Those seemingly unrelated numbers are triggering a rare condition in my friends and relatives.

I like to call it "Babyitis."

"Soooooooo," they say, sliding into the question like a frame-by-frame instant replay, "when are you and your hubby going to start a family?"

It hangs there, like passed gas in a room with no ventilation.

These are well-meaning people, but that question is starting to irk me because I just don't know the answer. Sure, there are smart-aleck replies like, "Probably never. He's gay and this is a marriage of convenience" or "Well, the aliens sterilized me during the abduction." But answers like that only put people off for so long.

Besides, it may be a good idea for The Other Half and me to start considering the pitter-patter of little feet. The wise words of my mother, who bore her fifth and final child when she was 31, keep running through my mind. "Have them before you turn 30," she warned. "Your whole body falls apart after that."

Of course, the FOUR OTHER KIDS she had prior to her 30th birthday may have had something to do with her difficulty birthing the fifth, but hey, who's counting?

Parents my age are starting to fascinate me. They seem so grown up, while I'm still trying to decide which is cooler, "The Simpsons" or "King of the Hill."

Take Lynn, my best friend. Her son will be 4 in May. She gets up around 6 a.m., dresses and feeds her kid, dresses and feeds herself, drives him to day care, works as an occupational therapist all day, picks him up, feeds him again ...

You see where I'm going with this? Lynn is responsible for an ENTIRE LIFE in addition to her own. She spends time with her son a few hours a night and on the weekends, and he can already count, read simple words and sing, "House of the Rising Sun," which actually has me worried.

I don't get to see Lynn much now that I'm in Florida, but my cousin, his wife and their 1- and 3-year-olds live two hours away. They have a day care in their home, so, altogether, there are five kids under age 4 in that house Monday-Friday.

With a weekday off from work and Mr. Half out of town, Monday seemed like a good time to get this whole parent thing figured out.

I arrived Sunday night to find Chris and Melanie in full parenting mode. The baby was cooing in her high chair. The genius older child was using a computer program to draw pictures. They had family prayer, and the kids went to bed without incident.

When the other hellions -- I mean, children -- arrived the next day, all Hades broke loose. One sat on the toilet yelling, "WIPE MEEEEEEEEEEE!" Another refused to go down for his nap and kept sneaking into the toys. The oldest kept ratting the others out. She'll make a great undercover agent when she gets older.

Through it all, Melanie remained calm and raised her voice only once. I'll never forget the look on her face when she discovered her older daughter taking Frosted Mini-Wheats out of the box, gnawing the sugar off of them and dropping them back in.

"You probably think I'm a monster," she said, sorting out the spit-covered Mini-Wheats.

Actually, I'd been thinking how every last one of those kids would be chained up in the back yard if I were watching them. And to think, I used to make disparaging remarks about parents who put their kids on leashes in public. Now I think those same children should be shackled.

I drove home to my own "kids," cats that are 6 months old now. They can stay alone overnight without burning the house down. They feed, bathe and entertain themselves.

Not that human children aren't nice.

I just may need a few more warm up sessions with Melanie before I commit to anything.

~Heidi Nieland is a former reporter for the Southeast Missourian who lives in Sarasota, Fla.