I don't like kids. I'll just come out and say it - I don't like them. I know how that sounds but I just don't like the way they always have runny noses or the way they are always sticky from something. The relentless whining, constant demands; there is nothing good about that. I don't even like the way most of them look after a certain age. Sure 0-6 months, they all look like pictures on a calendar, if they are fat enough. At that period of time, they are something else, big eyes, smiling at nothing, grabbing instinctively at dogs and other animals that come into their range of view. I always found that bond pretty fascinating, how the little, little babies are drawn automatically to animals as if they still share the innate link to nature until it gets diluted by language and counting and finally forced out by cartoons and TV ads. But after that, when they start talking and their teeth start growing in like kernels on a bad ear of corn, that's when I go off them completely. I don't have a maternal instinct either, no biological clock ticking, not one surge of last-ditch effort hormones boiling up in my thyroid or wherever. Nothing. So I don't know exactly what paralyzed me behind this little girl, this little girl with Down's Syndrome, who was in front of me in line at the Chinese food place, squinting up at the numbered menus on the wall. Her eyeglasses were thick and they made her eyes look small and the glint of the track lights on them was painful.

She wanted General Gau's Chicken, number 34. It comes with a choice of and egg roll or soup. She wanted the egg roll. I knew that because when she went to the counter she said it and yes her voice was low and her speech sounded like the words were pushed through Jell-O but I understood it, clearly, as if it were rain. But I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even move my body. I felt as if I were just hanging off the edge of a mountain for that single timeless, motionless second before the Fall. She wanted General Gau's Chicken Dinner and I knew it but the faces, those faces behind the counter, also suspended in my moment of an inhaled breath, they looked back and I knew they wouldn't make it easy.

"What's that?" they asked her sharply. They have accents that are hard to understand too and I thought that maybe they would be more forgiving of her vowel-heavy words. I wanted to say something. I could have stepped in at that point but her face was determined and calm and it kept me frozen. Either that or I just wouldn't know what to say or how to be. I am always such a phony when it comes to doing anything like taking authority, making things better. I have to think how someone else who I admire for it, my mother or some character in a book would do it and then pretend I'm her. It's a terrible feeling, to not like children or even know how to be with them and it's not something I admit on a daily basis. The public outrage that follows a woman, especially one that can still bear children, is medieval. I may as well walk through the town square naked and announce that I am a witch. At work - I work in an office - there are always instances of babies coming and a celebratory lunch for every phase. I'm pregnant. Tom and I are so pleased. And I go to all the lunches and the showers and I sign the cards that go to the hospital rooms and the 8 lbs 4 oz. Healthy babies that come home from them. And I wait for it to make sense to me.

Would this girl be considered healthy? I look at her body. She is stocky with thick legs and straight hair cut in a tidy way around her face. She has freckles and a pretty mouth that is forming the word "General" for a second time. She wouldn't be considered "normal"? , I am certain of that and I don't know a lot about these types of things. But I when I think of a normal kid, I think of one that wanders the neighborhood in search of frogs with a stick in one hand and a net in the other. I think of normal kids as ones with skinned knees who play games in the street until they can hardly see but I don't see those kids anymore. I see ones that don't talk to strangers, are imprisoned by molesters, murders and pollen allergies. I see ones that fall in line without imagination, without courage. What if I don't like my own children?

The girl asks again for her food and this time she says the number that goes with it. More puzzled faces. Again she says it, steady, without frustration, as if she would say it all day. One of the girls behind the counter understands and starts speaking to the others in Chinese, then there is a flurry of activity in the kitchen and the girl stands off to the side to wait. I manage to put in my order, although I don't feel hungry anymore, and I too, stand to the side to wait to be served. I feel like she and I have just won a battle, won a blue ribbon - something. I am almost exhausted by her effort. She is unaffected and watches the cars battle for position on Beacon Street at rush hour. I watch the cars too and I am not sure why I am there. For Chinese food that I don't want? I have felt like this for a while now and I think my boyfriend has felt it too. Last week he asked me to marry him. It wasn't really a proposal. One night after the movie we had just watched about some family who were going to make it after all, he said: "Maybe we should think about getting married." It wasn't really a proposal; it was more like a suggestion.

"Mark, My God. I thought you didn't like the idea?"

"I don't. I didn't. I just think maybe it's the right thing to do."

"What for?"

"Well, we might want to have a family some day."

I have to tell you, I felt a little betrayed. I thought we were in this together. I thought he was like me and didn't want to risk not being sure. I have had little daydreams about marrying him ever since that night but they always have some kind of dark spot, like occlusion in a diamond. Mark and I are married and we have all the nice things that married couples have. We have each other and that is good but there I am, pregnant for the first time, and I realize, even more than I do now, that I really don't like kids. Or worse, there I am, in a couple of years, pregnant for the first time and I am down on my knees praying for ten fingers, ten toes, a good heart. There I am praying for health and genetic balance of the 21st Chromosome so no one could tell me that I waited too long, that I made a mistake. But he is right to want to try. Everything does seem to be sort of pointless at a certain stage. Even my own body - here I am hauling around these big boobs, these hips, suffering monthly for an event that is never going to happen.

When they put the plate of steaming rice and chicken on the table, the girl begins to search in a white patent leather pocket book she has tucked under her arm. I wonder who bought these for her. Did her mother take her to the store and pick it out for her? Did she buy her a soda and tell her how to use it? Did they have a nice day out when she was given that purse? I hope it is the way I have imagined it - I mean, it is really important for me that this is how she got this purse. For some reason that I don't understand, I need to know that she is happy and that things are Ok for her … that she is content with her days. I am craving a sign of a smile - any acknowledgement of her triumphs at the food counter but there is more to be done and once again I find myself waiting on my breaths. She hasn't forgotten either. From the white bag, she pulls a matching change purse. The cashier has told her the cost of her food but she seems to know without him telling her.

She pulls three dollar bills from the pocket and smoothes them out on the counter. The cashier doesn't make a move towards them and I am so grateful for that. Instead, he watches her progress in silence as I do. She pulls out a quarter and lays it on the counter. One dime, another and then another goes towards the collection. One nickel and two pennies … she pushes the bills and then the coins, one at a time, flat with her fingertips on their centers, towards the man. He swoops them off the edge of the table, they disappear into his hand and then they rejoin the common coinage in the till, never realizing their significance.

She takes her food and sits at one of the little speckled tables. Finally she smiles, not for any other reason than the honeyed lumps of chicken in tangy sauce is very good that particular day. Maybe it is her favorite. Her focus on her food has closed me out of her experience along with the others who are more concerned with getting the driver back out on the road with several Pu Pu Platters for Two. I am left alone to wait for my order. Other children pass by the window, varying in age. Many ride bikes and have helmets. They ride behind their parents. They drink fruit juice and have healthy snacks in little Ziploc bags. There are some in minivans on their way to soccer practices or play dates. The older ones are tuned into music and say all the catch phrases to identify them as worthy of their peers. There are no ponds anymore, I suppose, no more frogs or trees to climb, so they go to dance and tae kwon do. When they get older they go to the Mall. I see the ones pass by that are slipping away as well, slipping to places where no one can reach them, where they become engulfed in anger or bitterness, or just rib-crushing emptiness.

There I am, married and pregnant, on my knees, praying that my unborn child can order Chinese Food without fear and be truly happy spooning it into her mouth. I pray for knowing when to buy a purse and knowing what to say when I explain it. I pray for frogs and for guidance. I don't pray for balance on the 21st Chromosome. I don't care about it at all.

If I could, I would sit down with the girl and ask her why she likes that dish, what other things she likes; what makes her glad, maybe I could get them for her. But she doesn't need me. That's the problem with kids … they break your heart.

^