STRANGER THAN FICTION: TURNING 30 GIVES YOU EPIPHANIES ABOUT CERTAIN THINGS

The issue of childbirth comes up more and more often after a woman turns 30, and I'm halfway to 31.

It's prime baby time. I'm young enough that I won't have to attend the child's graduation in a wheelchair. But I'm old enough that I've enjoyed five years of child-free marriage, visited two foreign countries and had at least limited success in my career.

So why am I petrified of pregnancy? Wary of my womb? Chilled by childbirth? After all, my first niece is in on the scene now. She is indisputably the world's most beautiful and intelligent child (until I have one of my own). My sister-in-law performs motherhood with all the grace and beauty of an Olympic sport.

But she was 22 when Elizabeth was born, and that makes a difference.

At 22, you're too inexperienced to really consider the repercussions of your actions, so you can dive into things fearlessly.

That probably explains why I got that asymmetrical haircut at age 22 and also began dating The Other Half.

But turning 30, while somewhat painful, also gives you epiphanies about certain things. You become your own woman. You have three decades of life experience behind you one of those spent outside our nation's public school system and you can think about a few hard facts before you make a decision.

For example, I haven't done a very good job raising two cats, so how would I do on an actual child? I am not lying when I say that. Although I thought I'd thoroughly trained my cats to stay off counters and tables, I entered the bathroom last week to find one LICKING MY TOOTHBRUSH.

The feeling that shoots through your intestines at such a moment is indescribable. Let me just say that toothbrushes are flammable.

I also consider some of the parenting I see going on around me.

There's a mother in my building who looks to be about 40 with a child who's 4 or 5. Her method of discipline is to say the child's name over and over. She was standing by the swimming pool the other day, her arms full of towels and cups and inflatable toys, trying to get Brian out of the water.

"Come here, Brian," she said. "Brian. Brian. BRIAN! Brian. Brian. Brian, I said come here. Brian. BRIAN! Brian. Brian...." It took all my willpower not to say: "Ma'am, I can see your hands are full. Allow me to yank your evil spawn out of the pool and beat his butt." More evidence that I wouldn't be a good mother.

And finally, I'm not suffering under any illusions about motherhood.

I am the oldest of five children. The youngest, born when I was 13, began whining upon exit from the birth canal and didn't stop until his appendix was removed at age 4. I'm not sure if the two events are related.

There were no Madonna-and-child moments of utter serenity between my mother and brother. I can't remember his first step, but it was probably taken in an effort to escape our home. And feeding time -- let's just say he wasn't interested in the airplane flying into the hangar or any other of those feeding games. Oddly, his favorite meal was pureed broccoli.

And let's not even talk about diapers. Mom used cloth -- like any ecologically and economically aware mother would -- which had to be RINSED OUT IN THE TOILET before they could be put in the diaper pail. Yuck!

But sometimes it hits me, that inexplicable urge to reproduce. It's usually when I see a happily pregnant woman snuggling up to her husband on the beach or when I see The Other Half interacting with kids. He'd be a great dad.

Maybe I'll get a dog.

Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff writer living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Contact her at newsduo@herald.infi.net.