Boyfriend and anyone who cares: Fear Not. While sure, being 30 has made me tear up when someone tells me they’re naming their daughter after their grandfather, Charlie, and Sure, I spend way more time than I should looking at friends’ and strangers’ babies in their assorted tiny football jerseys, and maybe I have officially decided that what I really want is a little boy who I can put suspenders on, who will play the piano and build forts. But these are of course all fantasies and abstractions of something that is incredibly real and intense: parenthood. Like actual parenthood. And at the end of the day,  I still want to sleep in until 10 on Saturday and then do whatever the crap I want. Selfishness still outweighs the need. I think I’ll wait a few years, at which point, I’m really hoping they don’t tell me my fertility is broken. Like, all of it.