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monument on the pathway of my brain so that every time I walked by I would remember its texture. Its smell. The weighty moment of euphoria.
    Growing up, I do not remember dreaming about being a mother. I didn't even like little kids. In high school, I was desperate for cash so I tried babysitting, which would have worked out great if there weren't any kids. Kids, I realized, were the obstacle between me and what I really wanted to do: house sit. An empty house with no parents and nothing between me, cable TV, and a well stocked refrigerator, was a dream. Kids complicated that dream. They put spaghetti in their hair, wouldn't go to bed when I told them to, and asked me to play checkers while I was watching Charlie's Angels . They spilled their milk and messed their diapers right after I had changed them. The whole experience was unpleasant and an inconvenience hardly worth the pittance I was paid at the end of the evening. While pregnant, I remembered my forays into babysitting. If motherhood was similar, I thought with apprehension, I was in for a long 18 years.
    In the days following Lauren's birth, I discovered that being a mother was similar to babysitting, only worse. No one drove me home when the evening was through and I was eternally employed for free. I was puked on, peed on, my hair was pulled out by the roots. I ate small bits of food here and there in a sleep deprived stupor. There were piles of reeking diapers, dirty clothes, screams in the middle of the night, and no escape.
    What I had not counted on was falling in love with my tormenter. This happens sometimes in hostage situations and is known unofficially as the Stockholm Syndrome, named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery of the Kreditbanken in Stockholm, Sweden, in which bank robbers held employees hostage for six days. During that time the victims became attached to their victimizers going so far as to defend them in court. Psychologists explain it as a defense mechanism. A hostage will begin to identify with her kidnapper. The victim senses that their survival depends on the connection they forge between themselves and their captor. Feelings of pity and empathy emerge until when faced with a choice to leave, they voluntarily stay.
    It did not take days or weeks for it to happen to me. One look at the cherubic face gazing trustingly up at me, fluttering Bambi-like eyelashes, and I would have been happy to defend her actions, criminal as they were, in a court of law. No one had to tell me I would willingly lay down my life for my daughter, I knew it. Not only that, but I started doing it every day without even thinking about it.
    In the interest of the continuation of the species, I'm pretty sure Mother Nature has created an elixir that causes women who have experienced childbirth to generally forget its intensity. This elixir is released inside the brain every time we remember the first moment our child is placed in our arms. Or the first time tiny arms reached out to us. It makes us smile and tell fellow sojourners, their bellies swollen with child, “Oh Hon, it's not so bad, really.” It creates a selective amnesia that propelled me two years later, to look deeply into my love's eyes and whisper, “Let's have another one.”
    It was late at night and we were sitting with our backs up against the headboard reading. “Okay,” Mike said, putting his book down as if he had expected it. “But you remember what happened last time? The puking, the moaning, the hospital?”
    â€œOh come on, it wasn't so bad. It was probably a fluke. This time will be different,” I said confidently.
    So we PLANNED to have a baby. We consulted a book on my monthly cycle that I just happened to have sitting on the night table. We determined that next Thursday looked good.
    â€œDo you think you can pencil me into your schedule?” I asked playfully.
    â€œOh, I'll be there,” he said with a wicked grin, leaning toward me.
    We were having fun