Tartlet. Funny word, isn’t it? I just want to keep saying it over and over and over…

Ok, we’ll get to those. Story time first.

Saturday we went out to dinner with my parents. No special occasion, just a much needed night out of the house for me with an equally as much needed bottle of wine. And guess where the conversation somehow headed about 15 minutes into the night?

Kids.

This is nothing new. I hear it from every angle in my life and my parents (read: my mom) are one of the more frequent sources. Apparently, whatever biological clock I was supposed to have in this area of life skipped me but more than made up for it in my mom’s desire for grandchildren.

“Oh, but you don’t realize how much you’ll love them until they’re here.”

“The not-sleeping thing is only temporary.”

“You’re going to be so lonely when you’re older.’

“It’s the biggest joy you can ever imagine.”

I could probably fill a book with the reasons people state for having kids.

And you know what, I believe them all. I bet it is the best damn joy in your life. Really, I do. I feel that way about my freakin’ dog so I can only imagine how a kid would make me feel. And I do realize the sleep thing is probably at most a year. And yes, I think your kids are cute and sometimes I get a fleeting moment of “aw” when I’m holding them.

But you want to know what else?

I can find plenty of other joys that aren’t going to plague me with constant worry for the rest of my life, cost me hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars or eat up every last second of my time and attention for the best years of my life. I’m not too keen on waiting until 60 when the kids are finally grown up and out of the house to do those bucket list things. Also, you should see me after one night of interrupted sleep from my dog let alone months on end of midnight feedings. I’m quite confident I’d be institutionalized by week 2.

The kid convo dragged along until the food came and then we all shut up as coconut curry mussels, coq au vin and burgers made their way into our mouths.

Fast forward to yesterday and there I am about 15 minutes into carefully running a knife around these mini-muffin cups trying to pop out these tartlets while keeping them intact and I get a text from my mom.

“Sorry about the baby talk last night.”

I put the knife down and respond, “It doesn’t bother me. It’s not like it remotely changes my mind.”

Because when it comes down to it, I’d rather spend an inordinate amount of my Sunday afternoon tending to tartlets than to children. Especially almond and coconut butter and chocolate filled ones.