I never really wanted kids. I always knew I didn’t want to have children with my first husband, which should have been a clue that something wasn’t right, and the timing was never right with my second. Or so I told myself. When I was living in California, I had a Labrador puppy for two days and returned him, realizing “I couldn’t take care of a dog.” In NY, I had a sweet little kitten that I gave back because “he was always looking at me.” The truth is, being responsible for another living thing terrifies me. I remember watching my nieces years ago and Addie was sick. I followed her around with a bucket praying that if she was gonna throw up, she’d be considerate enough to do so in the bucket. The thing is, you can’t return children. I’ve spent so much of my life avoiding things that scare me silly, I’ve missed out on a lot. No one’s ever called me “Mom”, and as I’ve never brought a person into the world, it’s entirely possible that there won’t be anyone to see me out. So this morning , as I contemplate the fact that my period is 8 days late, I think, well it’s either menopause or I’m pregnant at 56. And after I stop Iaughing, I wonder, which is more terrifying.