So you know how there are sleeper Cylons on Battlestar Galactica? How they looked and thought and worked just like everyone else, until one day when a switch flipped on in their heads and activated them? It was a scary thing to watch. They started to think back on all of their memories, and it seemed like their personalities had split in two, carrying on paths that were parallel to each other without ever quite intersecting. Boomer, for example, was programmed to shoot Adama in the face, which ticked him off royally and pretty much ensured that she would never work in that town again. And it wasn't even her fault, because the hard-wiring took over.

Well, here's the thing. I'm like a sleeper Cylon. But for babies.

A few months ago something happened to my brain. Something strange and unprecedented. I began thinking about babies on a near-constant basis. You've got to understand, I've never had much interest in having kids up to this point. They were cute enough, but I didn't really want one in my home. Now, I watch myself reacting to babies, and I think: what . . . the . . . frak. How did this happen? I always figured all that stuff about the biological clock was more myth than reality. Guess I was wrong. Not only does the clock exist, it's ticking loudly enough to be heard from space. For real. Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, dolphins are becoming disoriented and ramming into rocks.

Okay. This is what it's like. (And don't bother saying I'm crazy . . . that's common knowledge at this point.) It's as if there's this whole other voice that's sharing opinions with me, whether I want them or not. It's like with Joan of Arc, or Son of Sam, or the head growing out of that guy's stomach in Total Recall. I'll be sitting there watching my Metalocalypse ("Toki, is this the food library?"), and a voice in my head will suddenly pipe up and say, "awwwww, babies." Out of nowhere. The screen in front of me may be filled with blood and gore and diamond-encrusted codpieces and maybe a cokehead clown or two, and all I can think about is babies. And then I tear up, just a little bit. Because babies are awesome. Somewhere in my brain, Snarky Karen is shaking her head in disbelief. What's happening to me? Have I landed in the Manchurian Candidate or something?

Here's what I dreamed about last week. I dreamed that I went to the River of Babies, and I watched all the little babies swimming by. (Seriously, I used to dream about making out with Jon Stewart.) Then I reached down with my big fat butterfly net and scooped one of them out, so that I could take it home with me. It's true. This insidious alien presence has infiltrated my dreams, turning them all icky and saccharine.

You may be wondering, what does Nick think of this latest development? Has he perhaps boarded his space ship and headed for Mars in order to escape the ravening, baby-obsessed Cylon I've become? Fortunately, he has dealt with it like a champ, which is to say, he's adjusting to the idea while teasing me mercilessly. Tuns out he's a secret toaster-lover.

I leave you with this parting question: What's up with the 9-month waiting period on babies? I'm an American, and it's my constitutional right to have a baby now. Will someone please talk to the Supreme Court about this?