I spent the evening in Tampa tonight with a friend’s friend, his wife, and their 1.5 year old son. He’s probably the smartest little child I’ve ever met. He mimics everything that we do – high fives, jumps, yells, even chest beating. He’s also the happiest and most expressive little toddler I’ve ever seen. Today during our dinner of ribs, barbequed chicken, baked beans and slaw, he even ate our food cut into bits, all on his own, interchanging between using his little baby fork and his hands, along with a pretty decent pile of baked sweet potatoes. This child has the palate of God’s children.

Every time I see them, of course we spend a bit of time talking about children, child-rearing, and my potential future as a mother. I read their little toddler bedtime stories tonight, and he loved every minute of it – all my little explanations, imitations of animals and trains, and facial expressions. “He was so enthralled with your story telling!” my friend exclaimed. “Wow, you’re going to be a great mom one day!”

Maybe I will be, but I am absolutely terrified. The idea that a little blob could come out of my body and be 100% dependent on me is quite surreal. I told him this, and he said everyone feels that way. I suppose that is true.

“It’s scary in the beginning, and I felt the same way when he was born,” my friend said. “But after a while, you realize that babies aren’t that complicated after all. When babies cry, it’s always one of three things: 1) they’re hungry, 2) their diapers need to be changed, or 3) they’re tired and need to sleep.”

If only it were really that simple.