I have always said that I never wanted to have kids. I was an only child, never felt very comfortable around children, and thought that, at most, I would make a good auntie to friends' children and that would be just enough kiddie-dom for my life. And then I met a man who I fell head-over-heels in love with, who already had a two-year-old little boy. Ooh boy, step-mommy-hood. It freaked me out at first, and then I thought, what a perfect compromise! I get to enjoy the good parts of parenthood that everyone raves about, without the painful labor or the sleepless nights or the poopy diapers. I could watch this little dude grow up and be a part of his life and get a taste of being a mom, without having to give up my selfish desire for time to myself and the freedom to take off somewhere for the weekend whenever I damn well felt like it. So, I'd be a stepmom, and I'd like it. And since the love of my life was adamant about not having any more kids—so adamant, he'd already gotten a vasectomy—we were both on the “no more kids” boat, and we were fine with it.