STRANGER THAN FICTION: WHEN YOU BEGIN BABYTALKING YOUR PETS, THE NEED FOR CHILDREN IS SUDDENLY BECOMING APPARENT

When you find yourself saying things like, "Come here, wittle Romykins, so Mommy can bwush your wittle fur," it's time to consider childbirth.

My sister-in-law is pregnant.

Granted, she's not a great advertisement for child bearing. She found out she was pregnant while having debilitating back pain checked out, the morning sickness has been pretty repulsive and her doctor is ordering lots of a bed rest.

But Jennifer couldn't be more happy. Even though she says the blessed event was unplanned, she and her husband are extremely excited and already working on a new, larger house. They've got names picked out. And both sets of grandparents, not to mention aunts and uncles, apparently have babysitting reservations marked on a master calendar.

Which all might explain why I feel kind of pitiful lately. I'll be 30 in December. I've never owned a home. My compact car won't be paid off for another four months.

The Other Half would probably check out the view from the top of the Pensacola Bay Bridge if I ever told him I was pregnant.

And meanwhile, we're developing strange and unexplainable relationships with our cats.

I'd say 50 percent of our home conversation revolves around the actions of two, 2-year-old sibling felines that spend the vast majority of their days eating, sleeping, pooping and looking out the window. Yet we feel compelled to comment on all of that, as the following, actual conversation will show.

ME: Sweetie! Look at Romy and Bosco!

HIM: (Rushing toward the sound of my voice.) What are they doing?

ME: They're looking out the front window.

HIM: Awww, look at that. What's out there?

ME: Two doves eating something out of the yard.

HIM: They really like looking out there, huh?

ME: Yeah, they suuuurrrreee do.

Now tell me that's not absolutely pitiful. It gets even worse when you realize that The Other Half and I will carry on at least three or four more conversations like that in the course of a day.

And we're beginning to talk to the cats as though they're actual children. Last night, I uttered these words: "Come here, wittle Romykins, so Mommy can bwush your wittle fur." I ended up walking over to her to "bwush her wittle fur," because cats never listen.

Incidentally, my "children" have spent the last half-hour looking at a tree limb outside our second-story window. That followed a nutritious breakfast of Cat Chow, which they've eaten every morning since they switched over from Kitten Chow a year ago. Fascinating, huh?

On the other hand, bearing a human child seems like the ultimate vanity, when I consider the reasons I'd want to do it. My reasons aren't anything like: "Life has been so gosh-durn wonderful for me, and I'd like to impart that experience to another, unsuspecting human."

They're more like:

1. My friends and relatives would stop reminding me that I'm no spring chicken and should consider getting pregnant while I'm still energetic enough to chase a toddler.

2. I could do better than MY parents, fixing with my child all the mistakes they made with me. (Mom, Dad, quit laughing before you wet yourselves.)

3. That huge tax write-off.

4. The ability to leave work early, handing my unfinished assignments off to single or childless employees. (At least, that's the way it works now.)

5. When I'm discussing child-rearing and a frustrated parent shouts, "Do you even HAVE any kids?" I could shout back, "YES I DO!"

On second thought, maybe I should just stick with the cats until I can come up with some better, less selfish reasons for child bearing.

And maybe I should get some practice with my new niece or nephew before making a final decision.

Right now, I have to go get The Other Half. Bosco is doing the CUTEST thing with his new catnip mouse.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.