Last weekend, my friend Jamie (who happens to be a Sunday school teacher) hosted a slumber party for some of the little girls at her church. I got invited, too.

I could hear the little imps before Jamie had even opened her front door. Inside, I found four miniature sleeping bags, in varying shades of pinks and purples, lined up, facing the TV, and four little girls in pj's dancing and singing to Hairspray. The living room was a sippy cup obstacle course.

I had showed up just in time to make sugar cookies.

While I was helping her press Barbie pink sprinkles into a bit of dough vaguely resembling the shape of a duck, Keira, a three-year-old with a pint-sized Dorothy Hamill, smiled at me.

"You're a mom."

"Nope, " I said. "I'm not a mom."

"Yeah, you are."

Like, duhhh. If she could have rolled her eyes, she would have, but I expect it will be a few years before she picks up that fine skill.

"Okay," I said, conceding. "I'm a mom."

She grinned and with the back side of her hand, pushed her hair off her face, leaving a trail of flour and candy sparkles.

"I want to give you a kiss!"

She could have said, "I want to give you a cup full of nuclear waste!" or "a pencil in the eye!" and I would have been just as delighted. Concede your point, get a kiss. I kept the sticky, rainbow sprinkled smooch as a trophy. And I realized, that she was right; on some level, I must be a mom. Because I just let myself get railroaded by a three-year-old.

But man, If I got a kiss every time I conceded an argument, I'd probably be way less stubborn about it.

I'm in a kid coma.

At 3:30, four year old Emma was not interested in nap time, but I was dying for it. We'd already hit the pool, bandaged the resulting toe wound, watched Cinderella, lunched on PB&J, read four picture books (Melisande, twice), snacked on teddy bear cookies, sidewalk chalked my patio, and were hitting play on The Wizard of Oz.

"What kind is this?" Emma asked, handing me the white VHS box.

"What kind?" I wasn't sure I understood.

"It's a video," I said, finally.

"What's a viii-dee-oh?" she asked, slowly repeating her new word.

"Uh... it's just really old."

"Okay! Old! Perfect!"

Oh, man, the way this dimpled little imp said "perfect!" to things like a fistful of fake Teddy Grahams or the little clip I put in her hair - I swear, it very nearly made me forget about the peanut butter she wiped on the new microfiber dining chair. I have got to be quicker with the napkins, obviously. I could have taken some cues about quickness from Sir Hal, who,for the entire day, kept just out of arm's length. Artful dodger, that guy. And, like me, he's been a lump on the couch for the last hour recuperating.

Actually, I think I've stumbled onto a new source of cheap, green energy. I haven't worked out all the details yet, but basically, corral a buncha four-year- olds, then hook 'em up to this thing which collects energy (yeah, that's the technical term), and route that to your home. Then suggest maybe it's nap time. That sticky-fingered, giggly mess of nap resistance will soon become the answer to the summer's central air bill.

I'm brilliant. Comatose, but brilliant.

Neil and his nine-year-old nephew came over for dinner last night. I'd made chicken curry for the grown-ups, pizza for the palatably unrefined, and then put on Shrek while I threw together some (homemade, of course) brownie sundaes. With strawberries and chocolate sauce. In my nine-year-old world, that would have been dinner party success. But, apparently, I was dealing with a much savvier breed of youngster.

"The place looks great," Neil said, as they were heading out.

"Yeah, not too much hair."

Amused, I looked over at the nephew, digging the toe of his sneakers into the carpet as he waited by the door.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Most women are real hairy," he explained. "It's everywhere."

I nodded, understanding. "Well, it's a good thing I vacuumed then, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

We said our good-byes and I closed the door behind them, still laughing. I was glad to have passed inspection (if only by a hair*) but man, who knew kids were so picky? I thought pizza and too much sugar would do it, not my OCD Hoovering. Kids today? They pay attention to detail.

I have a playdate with his four-year-old sister next week. I should probably see about getting my eyebrows waxed and my nails done. Otherwise, my extensive knowledge of Dora the Explorer will have been for naught.

* Oh, come on. I had to.

"Whoa! What color is that?"

I crinkled my nose and looked down on the baby, fist shoved into her mouth, drool leaking out the sides. At the sight of my face - eyes wide, brows raised in mock horror - she grinned.

"Uh huh. Laugh it up, but I think we're gonna need more baby wipes. STAT."

I've always thought that the best and most efficient way to cure Baby Fever was to spend time with other people's offspring. The idea is, you'll see what babies are really like, realize how much you love your single, diaperless existence, kiss the baby on the head and wish the parents luck as you speed off in your carseat-fee set of wheels.

Take that hormones! You have met your match! And it wears size 0 to 3 months.

Last weekend, I drove to Austin to spend time with Stephanie, Phil and the Wonder Twins. And when the three of us weren't out running around doing grown-up things (tennis, cocktails, shopping), I had a baby on my hip and a thin coat of drool on my right shoulder. The babies cried and fussed and puked and pooped (as they do), and I cooed and lullabied and wiped and changed. And when I left on Sunday morning, I was not cured. In fact, it was all I could do to walk out that door without committing baby larceny.

Whoa. I bow to the all-powerful hormones. Not even a diaper full of avocado-colored excrement could defeat them.

I'm certain it didn't help things that Stephanie, a woman who did single and carefree with enviable flair, is such a natural, graceful mother that motherhood seemed equally enviable. Babies: the season's must-have accessory. And Phil does fatherhood with such charm, up to his elbows in hamburger meat, throwing goofy smiles toward a bouncy-seated little man who has just discovered his tongue, that husbands started to seem like not such a bad thing either.

"There goes my plan to have a turkey baster baby at 35," I told Scott last night on our way home from dinner.

"Please, woman. You'll find someone long before then."

"That's not the point. It was such a nice plan. I was fine with the idea of doing it alone. I mean, men - no offense, dear -- can be such pains in the ass."

"You just haven't met the right one yet, is all."

"So they tell me."

"..."

"..."

"Yeah, sorry. I guess it just seemed like the right thing to say."

'Heather & Abs,' cameraphone work by SK

The Scotts and I were on our way to the mall for appropriate Meeting the Parents outfits (I was there on a consulting basis, only; I didn't think Scott's mother was ready to meet his boyfriend and his boyfriend's girlfriend. Not in the same night, anyway). My phone rang and the screen announced it was my very pregnant Torrie calling.

"Are you in labor?" I asked without bothering to say hello. I was only half serious, but all the way hopeful.

"Yes, actually, I am."

I'll do you all a favor and omit the part of the conversation with all the squealing and 'oh. my. god!'s. Suffice it to say, I was just really, really excited. I was about to be a Half Mommy.

Several months ago, when I was Lamaze breathing through kidney stones, I announced to the world that if the pain was anything like the pain of childbirth, I wasn't having anything to do with it. Ever. No siree, no babies for me. Which is really a shame, since babies and I get on very well. Babies, I think, are like dogs. Or cats. If they sense you're a dog/cat/baby person, the dog/cat/baby automatically likes and trusts you. No hoops to jump through, no need to prove yourself capable of a one-handed diaper change, or produce a library of silly, yet soothing lullabies. Baby knows you got that covered, because Baby can smell it on you. Like a pheromone.

Anyway, being in possession of that pheromone, it was sort of a shame to give up on babymaking altogether. But, seriously, the pain!

"You can share mine," Torrie offered. Torrie is a really good sharer.

And so I began preparing to be a Half Mommy. A silent partner in a baby timeshare. Okay, maybe not so silent. I butted in a bit, gave my opinion about the baby's name, stocked the baby library with my favorite childhood books, supplied Torrie with Three Musketeers bars, and waited.

Nineteen hours after Torrie called, baby Willa Elizabeth was born. I can't tell you how thrilled I was - or how anxious, with Torrie being without Interweb or phone for days after. And now that I've finally seen a picture of the wee bairn? Still thrilled and pretty sure that I'm going to have to get my ass on a New York bound plane before she gets too big to fit in my purse. You know, for an easy getaway.

Ladies and gents, Miss Willa Elizabeth.