Oh, baby On the very faint ticking of one man’s biological clock BY ALAN OLIFSON

If you had to guess who I am based solely on the front of my refrigerator, you would have to go with an 80-year-old grandmother. If pressed, you’d probably say I’m from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

There is nothing stuck to the cheap, off-white surface indicating that I am, in fact, a 34-year-old male. No basketball-league schedules or Sam Adams bottle openers or 1940s pin-up-girl magnets. Nor is there any trace of my live-in girlfriend, Jess. No "girls’ night out having margaritas" snapshots, no Bed Bath & Beyond plastic fruit magnets, not even a frozen-yogurt coupon.

Instead, here’s what’s hanging on the front of my refrigerator, in no particular order: a thank-you card from my nephew’s first-birthday party; two photos of Jess’s niece and nephews; a "Measuring Equivalents" magnet in the shape of a measuring cup; a drawing made by my two-year-old niece; assorted birth announcements; and, most inexplicably, a tiny ceramic vase in the shape of a Russian nesting doll.

The rest of our apartment has what I like to think of as a moderately hip, young, childless-couple feel: original artwork in dark, earthy tones; various shelves carefully cluttered with a healthy mixture of books, candles, and eclectic souvenirs; a subtle smattering of Urban Outfitters throw pillows. But the refrigerator. Sweet Jesus. It’s as if we have a 90-year-old Russian Jew living in our kitchen. Every time I go to grab a beer, I half expect to find a pan of noodle kugel on the top shelf.

How did it come to this? To answer that question, I’m forced to look beyond the fridge. The fridge is just a symptom, like a runny nose. We could wipe away baby pictures all week; we’ll just get more. The real problem here is that everyone we know is having children.

Please, don’t misunderstand: I love kids. I want kids of my own ... someday. In the very abstract sense. In the someone-to-care-for-and-carry-on-my-genes sense. I’m just not entirely sold on the wake-up-at-3-a.m.-to-clean-shit-off-the-wall sense. But who ever is, right? Having kids is one of those things you dive into in spite of the day-to-day facts. Like sex with a hooker. Okay, bad example. But you know what I mean. With kids, you’ve got to look at the big picture. If we, as a species, undertook procreation with the same kind of Consumer Reports–inspired zeal we have for, say, buying a car, the first generation would have settled on a few pets. "Yeah, honey, I know they look cute, but see here, they’re the only model with a ‘one-year-plus’ ranking in the ‘Unpredictable Projectile Vomiting’ category. Now take this Labrador ..."

That everyone is having kids before me comes as no big surprise. It seems to be the natural sequel to all the weddings I went to as a single man in my mid 20s. The main difference being, it’s much less acceptable to get drunk and hook up with your friends’ wives’ friends at baby showers. Of course, the bigger difference is the lifestyle change. When my friends married, they were marrying long-time girlfriends, people I had known and whose company I had enjoyed for years. After the honeymoon, life went on much like before. We ate at the same restaurants, drank at the same bars, stayed out until the same post–9 p.m. hours. Their lives together may have changed, but my life with them remained the same — except now we could also make bread. And ice cream and fondue. I hadn’t lost a friend, I had gained a Crate & Barrel catalogue. Really, marriage was a win-win.

But babies? Come on. I have no use for a Baby Björn.

So goes the cycle of life. Between us, Jess and I now have no fewer than 19 kids under four in our close circle of friends and family, with at least three more in the oven. Kids we love and enjoy. Kids we baby-sit for, and whose birthday parties we attend. I have spent more Sundays at Chuck E. Cheese’s than I have spent watching football. I can tell you where the good Mommy & Me classes are and what you should expect to pay for a good baby jogger, and I have actually grown tired of talking about breasts.

In some ways I know this is all great preparation, a sort of parental apprenticeship. I can learn from others’ mistakes without worrying about costly child-psychiatrist bills down the road. Plus, there’s all that hand-me-down baby furniture. But I’m worried about burnout. Not mine. Everyone else’s. Sure, now my friends and family all dote and pamper and coo-chi-coo every newborn in a fleece jumper with an animal-shaped hood. But by the time I get around to fatherhood, will they all be over it? Will I be walking around with my baby like the last kid on the block to get a Tickle-Me Elmo doll when everyone else has moved on to Robosapiens?

I guess I’m realizing I have a biological clock. Sure, it may not tick as loudly as a woman’s, but I hear it, ever so faintly. I mean, just because I can have kids when I’m 60 doesn’t mean I should. Solely on a practical level, do we want a generation of teenagers taught to drive by 75-year-old men? "Oy, just leave the turn signal on, you’ll turn left eventually. Now, before turning, look left, look right ... hey, see that big grocery store over there, that’s where I first met Doris. It used to be a Bloomingdale’s. Did I ever tell you about Doris?"

Maybe my fridge is a magnet, quite literally, for these biological urges. But considering how many times I’ve had lunch with a new father who’s shown up with bags under his eyes and spit-up stains on his shirt, I see no reason to rush into the whole parenthood lifestyle before actually having a child. So I think it’s time to take back my refrigerator. Soon enough I’ll be sending out baby pictures of my own, and people can hang them on their fridges — or, more likely, they can display them on the video screens of the Automatic Instant Food Preparation Devices we’ll all be using on the moon.

Send birth announcements to Alan Olifson at alan@olifson.com