WHEN, at the age of five, I stopped playing with dolls, I lost interest in motherhood. As the years passed, and I went from five to fifteen to forgetting about birthdays, I did not develop a "natural" drive toward having offspring, as is common to most of my sex. The reasons may be buried in some secret attic of my childhood, but it is an attic I have no need to rummage around in. Of course, rather than having Freudian roots, it may be, as some research has implied, that the so-called mothering instinct is no instinct at all. But, like eating with a knife and fork, simply a matter of social training. And, for whatever reason, I was never trained.
In fact, by the time I came to my thirties, having remained carefully childless throughout an unsuccessful marriage, I was firmly convinced that the status of motherhood was not all that peachy-keen. Indeed, as the cost of child-rearing rose, as the population explosion exploded and the designation Ms. was added to Miss and Mrs., my attitude, if not that of the non‐ silent majority, was now no longer an example of female eccentricity.
Given this state of the culture, I thought I would never have to take a course in motherhood, especially since the man I wanted to marry was not interested in the Little League, in