The pitter patter of little feet

"They should make it so you're more fertile in your 30s, because that's when you've got money and know what you're doing."

The Other Half absently rubbed my feet on the couch, using the non sequitur to launch our umpteenth conversation about having children. It was becoming our sole conversational topic since I turned 35, my good eggs went on the lamb and my chances of having a child with Down syndrome shot to one in 400.

Why are our bodies so ready for children in our 20s when our bank accounts and brains aren't?

The last time I wanted children was at 19, when my abstinence-based sex education manifested itself in a missed period. I was scared but also a little thrilled. I thought of names and cute little outfits.

Years later, remembering that false alarm made me sweat. All around me, women were staying home or mommy-tracking into easier jobs because of child-unfriendly workplaces. Meanwhile, I was ever so available. Stay late? Sure. Weekends? OK. Spend a month away from home? Love to.

Times have changed and now one of my top bosses is a fertility goddess -- beautiful, powerful, radiant, she's eight months pregnant and has two other children at home.

Inside and outside the office, friends my age are in two categories: pregnant or dealing with a fertility problem. They're taking hormones. They're getting in vitro.

I only pretended to commiserate until my 35th birthday loomed close. Turns out that year is a giant cutoff every woman knows about. Your fertility drops dramatically. Your pregnancies are high risk by virtue of age alone.

Then came The Lunch -- a holiday gathering of a few friends to celebrate the season. The ones with children talked about using Santa as threat and buying the hot toys. Suddenly, a childless, 40-something woman in our group started talking about her new kitten, how she got it, what she named it, the neat things it does.

The Lunch hit me hard. I thought, "In 10 years, will I be sitting around talking about my cat when everyone else has stories about their kids?"

Always the reporter, I started to interview every mother I could find. Did you have morning sickness? How did you find day care? Were you able to get enough sleep to function at work? How much does your husband help out? What do you do when you have to stay late?

Meanwhile, The Other Half was flummoxed. At first, he refused to even address the idea. Slowly, he started to recognize it was an issue in our marriage. "I should probably try to get a day job," he'd say. Or, "When do they get out of diapers?"

All the questions got answered. And I came to some conclusions.

You can't do a cost-benefit analysis or a pros/cons list on having a baby. Mothers can't explain why they wanted children or what the experience of childbirth and child rearing meant to them. They can say the words, but it's a language of love only they truly understand.

There's never enough time or money to have a baby; never enough assurances he or she will be perfect.

The only question is this: Do you want a baby?

Mr. Half circled my heel with a fingertip. "Maybe you could just stop taking your birth control and see what happens," he said. "We don't even know you can get pregnant. Just don't take any more."

"OK," I said.

I woke up before dawn and lay there for a while, thinking about those baby names I picked out as a giddy teen. Cody. Adrienne. Ian. Genevieve. Tristan. Elise.

I got up and took my pill.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.