“Will I ever be a mother?” That’s a question I’ve asked myself many times over the last several years. And now that I’ve just celebrated my thirty-nineth birthday, that question has become a statement. I don’t think it’s in my cards to have a child. I’m writing about this subject because I know many single and married women close to my age who struggle with the concept that they may never conceive a child of their own. And for many of us, there’s a feeling of sorrow in that fact. Yes, of course adoption is a beautiful option. And science has progressed in such a way that a woman doesn’t need a man in her life to have a baby. But that’s not what this story is about. I’m not writing about all of the choices women have today to raise a child of their own. And this isn’t necessarily a blog about the blues of being childless. This story is a different kind of lullaby. I always thought that I would give birth to a child. It was mapped out in my mind. This was my plan: I would graduate from college, find a job, get married, and then start having babies. That’s how my mom did it. So of course, I would follow her lead. Life had a different plan. I did graduate from college. And then I got a job. But I never got married. And I never had a baby. About a year ago, I was scheduled for a routine appointment with my female OB/GYN. And I love her! She’s young, cool, professional (but also laid back), cautious, yet she never overreacts to anything. During this particular appointment, after all of the basics were covered, my doctor sat down in her chair while I was sitting upright on the patient table. My body was mostly covered by a medicinal-smelling patient robe with an open slot near the chest for breast exams. My doctor looked at me very matter-of-factly and said, “Now that you’re thirty-eight we should talk about the option of freezing your eggs if you think you’ll want to have children.” And there is was. The acknowledgment that I was no longer a “spring chicken.” I took a deep breath and said, “I bet that’s expensive.” She told me that it probably would be. And then I said, “Is there any chance that you can find me a man first?” She laughed and said that she doesn’t envy her single friends who are exploring today’s dating pool. After that conversation, I confessed that I didn’t want to have a child on my own. While I have enormous respect for the many single mothers who raise and love their children while working hard to provide for them every day, I knew that I didn’t want to take the journey of parenting alone. Not by choice. And so I left my aging eggs untouched. And as the next year ticked away, I tried to make peace with the idea that I might not have ever have a baby. Somewhere deep inside of me, there’s a voice that holds out hope that it could happen. But I must confess that other thoughts about having a child cross my mind now that I’m nearing forty. I have thought to myself, “I can pick up and go anytime I want. And having a child would change that freedom. Is my lifestyle too selfish for a baby now?” And when I do the math, I also think, “Do I want to be a fifty year old woman with a ten year old, plus another decade before I have an empty nest?” But then as my number of birthdays continue to increase, I also don’t like the idea of being told, “You can never have a baby.” Never. It’s an awful word. And a hopeless concept. Yet still, all of these thoughts invade my brain whenever I think about reproducing. And then, one night, something happened. It was a profound moment for me as I struggled with my questions. This is the story of Lauren. And this what she taught me. Lauren is three years old. She is pint sized with delicate features. Her skin is porcelain, but sometimes her cheeks turn a natural shade of pink. Her soft hair is curly and a shade of blond that might turn brown one day when she gets older. And her little voice has tones of a sweet melody every time she speaks. If you ask Lauren today what she wants to be when she grows up, she’ll tell you that she wants to be a fairy. Which seems perfectly fitting to me because I believe she has magical powers. And while she’s not old enough to write her own name, she seems intuitive enough to read the souls of every person she meets. Lauren is a lover of people. In a quiet way. I notice this every time she walks into a room. People are drawn in by her sweetness. This doesn’t mean that she likes everyone. But for those of us lucky enough to connect with her little soul, it’s the kind of feeling that makes your heart smile. Lauren is my niece. And she taught me that I can have a bond with a child who is not my flesh and blood. I had Lauren stay with me for a sleep over one night. A big girl bed was prepared for her with softy blankets, stuffed animals and a bright, night light in case she became afraid of the dark while staying in an unfamiliar home. Our day together was filled with choo choo train rides, princess movies, sweet treats and splashing around in a wishing fountain with a sign that read, “No Wading.” Hey, I’m the aunt, sometimes we break the rules! After a dinner capped off with a homemade sundae bar, we danced around the family room to Katy Perry music (her playlist choice). It was a busy day and by 9pm, Lauren’s eyes were sleepy. I took Lauren up to the bedroom that was prepared for her and read her a bedtime story. I kissed Lauren on her forehead and left the room. After a long day of fun, I was ready to retire for the night. But as I was pulling back my bedcovers, I heard the tiny cries of a little girl outside of my room. It was Lauren. I picked her up and asked if she wanted me to read another story. She shook her head no and said, “Katy Perry.” I knew what she wanted. It was a different kind of lullabye. We snuggled in my bed together and watched a few Katy Perry music videos. Again, I’m the aunt. Why would I want to deprive this little soul of a nighttime pop lullabye? After watching the “Roar” video for the third time, I insisted that we go to sleep. Lauren looked at me with her tired eyes and shook her head yes. And then I kissed her goodnight on her forehead and said, “I love you.” She looked up at me with her blue eyes, that for such a small human being are filled with lovliness and grace, and said, “I love you Aunt Andrea.” She rested her head of curly locks on my shoulder. And then I watched this child with magical powers drift off to a place of happy dreams. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of love for her. She wasn’t bioloically my own, but she didn’t need to be for me to love her like a daughter. Will I ever be a mother? Probably not. But Lauren taught me that for some us, it’s okay to sing a different kind of lullabye.