It’s a cloudy Sunday morning, and I’m sitting with Boyfriend at a tense Sunday brunch. We pick at our $13 pancakes and $12 eggs (serves us right for eating in Tribeca), while staring at Blackberry screens and stack of printouts, both immersed in our lists of immediate tasks that need to be accomplished so we can move on to the next set of immediate tasks. Absently chewing a bite of syrup-drenched banana, I notice movement through the window. A steady stream of well-dressed, attractive parents is marching past, pushing strollers and pulling tiny hands, designer diaper bags and leather satchels slung over their shoulders. And then there are the babies. They’re everywhere, covering the sidewalk, infants cradled in arms or asleep in slings, one-year-olds howling and wriggling in strollers, toddlers tripping over cracks in the pavement, darting through legs, heads lolling and limbs flailing in the free-for-all of tiny people who have just discovered the concept of free will. All of Hudson Street is suddenly a baby parade, and I’m in danger of blowing a fuse from cuteness overload.

“Boyfriend, look! Babies!”

He barely looks up from his Blackberry. “Hold on, I have to make a call.”

“Oh come on, just look! There are like thirty of them, all at the same time!”

“What? Honey, I have to work.”

“You can’t miss this, they’re so cute!”

He turns around, grunts noncommittally, turns back to his phone. “Yeah, great.”

I snort through my nose. “Oh, fine. I guess they’re only cute if you have ovaries.”

“Honey, come on. I’m trying to do this right now. It’s important.”

“Yeah I know you’re Mr. Important and you have to work, but you’re sitting here with me and this is a cute moment that I wanted to share with you.”

He’s gone, retreated into e-mail, his eyes displaying the “I am now unaware that you’re even speaking” glaze I know well. I feel instant panic rising, the rapid estrogen-fueled response to male indifference to children - Red Alert! He’s not responding well to babies! Warning sign! He’ll never want to start nesting!

Sighing, I snag a bite of his huevos rancheros. Then again, I’m hardly ready to start breeding myself. Is there ever really a “good” time for something like that? Do I even want it? I stare at Boyfriend, his brow furrowed as he contemplates the latest work crisis that’s devoured his weekend. He’s rising up the ladder, putting in nights and weekends, leaping titles and office sizes, looking ahead, working steadily towards - what really? What are we both working towards, spending the majority of our waking hours either striving to accomplish or stressing about not accomplishing? All this constant fuss and worry - what else is the point? Why do it if not to eventually share it with others, with a brood? Otherwise, why bother? I watch his face, trying to figure out a way to verbalize what I’m thinking.

“Boyfriend? Do you think-”

“Let’s get the check. I have to run to the office.”