I had a baby in my lap yesterday. I was sitting in the beauty parlor and the mom/stylist put the baby in my lap and the baby was sweet, and of course, a genius, like they all are, and movie-star gorgeous, of course, like they ALL are, and I thought about the baby, and how it could be my grandchild, and what it would feel like to have a grandchild, and then a sick thought came into my head: Irrelevant. The baby felt irrelevant. An outdated idea, a museum curiosity, an object d’art from the past-no longer critical to the survival of the species as the world reels and weeps from over-population. Was I so much of a monster as to rethink my desire to continue my genetic blueprint in a grandchild? To refrain from encouraging my beloved daughter to partake in the joys of motherhood? After all, I just love being a mom, loved it from the beginning, can’t imagine the alternative. The world was a rough place 31 years ago, when I made the decision to bring forth a member of the Y Generation. Is it worse now? Aren’t a few good years on the planet, before the shit hits the fan, better than no years? I believe so, and yet the baby in my lap- the precious, sacred life and hope of tomorrow, did not seem like the answer to anything.