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He talks nearly nonstop from the moment he gets up until the moment he succumbs to sleep.
And maybe, if I decide to have children, it will be.
And usually, I am—as long as we're both in the mood for it. Then I realize that he probably feels the same way.
It's been difficult not to take Noah's rejections personally when he refuses to eat from the Cheez-It pack I opened or when he won't let me unbuckle his car seat. But just because I empathize doesn't mean I always act age-appropriately.
I feed her once a day, clean the litter several times a week and return her occasional affection. I blame my maternal deficiencies in part on the fact that I was the family princess while growing up.
Maybe I'm giving my parents purpose, or maybe I'm lazy and self—absorbed—not exactly qualities that make a person fit for taking on a child. He and his wife divorced when Noah was 1 year old, and we began dating shortly after. For a while, I could be just me, the same me I'd always been. Our relationship moved quickly; one minute, we were courting over meaningful conversation and too many glasses of wine, and the next, we were spending our Friday nights playing Chutes and Ladders and pleading with a 2-year-old to eat his green beans.As far as I know, I never sent Bob the vibe that I was the slightest bit maternal. At some point, I emerged from the haze of falling in love to look up—generally as Noah was doing something like urinating on the bathroom cabinets—and wonder, How the hell did I get here? But Bob and I were infatuated and naive, and there was no way to predict how challenging my role as "the other one" would be.