was making a pair of PB & J sandwiches tonight when the equation clicked. Sally's gone to Kentucky to grade essay questions for students seeking advanced placement, so I've had a fair number of these sandwiches while she's away. The bread was best used by... about a week ago, but nothing looked fuzzy, so I pressed on.

In an empty apartment, I get to run my brain in high gear, without a load on the engine, as I don't have to be friendly or conversational when left to my own devices. My mind wanders, and I figured something out. I'll get to what it is shortly, but first you need some context.

Today at church I held a baby; A foster baby, the responsibility of a young fresh-faced couple without kids of their own who will make fine permanent parents should they get the opportunity. A cell phone appeared to capture the moment of my discontent. The baby was more comfortable than I was by a good country mile, and my face showed it. Good photo op.

I'm pretty okay with not having kids. Sally's pretty okay with it too. One of us could cave, and we've both admitted how relieved we are that we're both on the same page for now. It could change. The problem is, I couldn't make the numbers add up to explain the intensely unsettled resistance I now have to having kids (My own kids - the rest of you can go forth and multiply to your heart's content). When I was younger (not like 8, but like 20) I believe the lack of interest was purely selfishness - either of time or money or love or whatever - I just didn't want to care about someone else that was that helpless and so dependent on me. I didn't want the responsibility.

But it was a passive disinterest. At some point my feelings grew more aggressively resistant. "The point" was when someone I knew, who was near my age, died giving birth. It was tragic, and horrendous and desperate and gut-wrenching, and I was on the utter periphery, barely a shoulder to some of the people this most affected. Yet it shook me, and continues to shake me. From that day on my disinterest turned to fear. This is a fear with some legs too, because though I can sit here writing about it, I still can't put it in any rational container. It's a cold, oily dread with a density to it that left a glossy rainbow trail on the surface of my conscious mind while the bulk of it kept descending. It took up residence some place deeper that I don't have much interaction with unless I'm asleep, or possibly high on moldy wheat bread...

But this is the easy math so far. A terrible thing happened, and I got scared, and et voila, becoming a eunuch doesn't seem excessive. Not hard to figure out. But these pieces were in place before I got married. And after that, the equation changed - not a ton, but it changed. First it was selfishness, then it was fear, then marriage, and now what? Now the new math. Now it's a much more straightforward calculation, but one that didn't click, until tonight.

Before, my calculations had unknown variables filling the spot for potential loss. Now they've got a constant, with a value of 1 (one) Sally (the price of which does fluctuate occasionally due to a lack or surplus of Oreos in the pantry). I know what I stand to lose if it all goes South. I know what the wager is, and I've seen lots of examples of the payoff if you don't lose the bet. Hoo-ray. It works out fine for thousands of people everyday, and I've only watched it go bad once. But the reward... doesn't add up. I don't have the guts to put my money down for the potential big win. Good for everyone else, and I hope to have a house that my nieces and nephews love to hang out at, because I love them and think they're the bee's knees. But I'll be damned if I'm willing to bet my selfish happiness with what I've got right now on what I could have. That's the new math, and if you'll permit me to stretch the analogy well beyond its shelf-life, I know I'm using irrational numbers in the calculation. Whatever. The point is things are a whole lot more rational now that I know what the bet consists of.

And for now, as far as I'm concerned, the bet is off.

If, in 5 years or so I've got 8 rugrats and everyone's healthy, then a blessed man am I and I'll be perfectly happy to deal with that reality. It's not a question of the potential good that squeezes the air from my lungs when I think about it. It's the other side of the coin, and I fully embrace that cowardice rules my thinking here. I'm happy now. Is it bad that I'm intent on keeping it that way?

Put another way, to our respective mothers... I hope you like our cats. =)