My poor mom. The closest thing to a grandchild she'll see in awhile is a self-published paperback.
A few years ago around Christmastime, the fridge was covered with pictures of other people's children on holiday cards and my mom interrupted our meal by asking, "Now Jessie, do you think you'll adopt, or would your partner get pregnant?" I held my breath for a minute, deciding if it was worth it to point out that the question was launched from nowhere. Concluding that it wasn't, I answered with, "Mom, I don't even have my own apartment right now. Let's worry about imaginary babies later."
I love you, Mom. You can push a copy of my book on a park swing whenever you want.