When I was younger, I couldn’t picture myself as a parent. It was a foregone conclusion, but not one I felt strongly for. I suspected that I’d eventually feel obligated to propagate and then *wham* I’d be raising some kids. But somewhere between my first “real” relationship and the start of college, the tide changed. I became the friend that everyone assumed would settle down and start pushing out babies. I mean, I even had it planned out: married within a few years of graduating college, then have a kid at 25, 27, and 29. Done by 30. Fool-proof, right? Entirely wrong. Reality was me, unmarried, and a mother by 23. Not the worst, but it stilted my plans a bit. I adapted, and adjusted my plans to include a new baby after a few years, when the timing and circumstances were right. The funny thing was that circumstances were never right.