One week ago, one of my very best friends from college (the Texan in Alaska – I’ve written about her before) gave birth to her first child, a gorgeous, tiny, perfect boy she and her husband named Matthew. I was in the middle of getting a new tattoo (heartbreak, impulse, whatever, it’s gorgeous) when the very first picture of this lovely creature appeared on my cellphone. The minute the needle was out of my arm (ow!), I opened the text and immediately gasped. There he was, this little person, curled up on his mama’s chest, and there she was, a mama. At last. I will not deny that my stomach did a flip when I saw them, and I definitely will not deny that I teared up – anyone who’s met me knows that I cry all the damn time. But the biggest thing that happened? I had a sudden sharp ache in my heart.

On this blog, I’ve never claimed to be ‘child-free,’ I’ve never claimed to be opposed to kids who already exist. And I’ve never said – to anyone – that I don’t want to have children. But one week ago, for the first time in my adult life, I felt a longing, a yearning for a child of my own.

Luckily, I talked to the Texan transplant yesterday. The honesty for which she’s become famous is still very much intact, and once I heard about her scabbed nipples, I was back to feeling like myself again. Ruined shirts from downpours of breast milk? Stitches in places I never want to tear? Pass the pills and the condoms and the episodes of Jon & Kate, y’all. No babies for me (yet).

— Amelia