In a charming essay here,  a Londoner named Sathnam Sanghera cops to being a 33-year-old man whose biological clock is ticking. A Bridget Jones with testosterone, a Charlotte York before her Harry comes into the picture. It’s a nice personal essay, if a little too long, and Sanghera zeroes in on the thing that’s most striking about admitting to a longing for a baby: that it somehow seems unmasculine. It shouldn’t be, particularly because we so deeply romanticize the idea of, for example, fathers playing catch with sons. Besides, wanting a baby, at least in the circles I inhabit, is far more likely to get you hooked up than not. But it’s true that it does sound like something women want far more often than men, and that’s worth pointing out.

Mostly, however, what I find fascinating is his title: “I Am a Broody Man.” Broody? Broody? I never (till today) knew that the Brits use this term to refer to women who are longing to procreate. It sounds like something out of a Nick Park movie—most likely Chicken Run, given that hens, at least, brood over their eggs. I hate to break it to you, Mr. Sanghera, but it’s not the desire for a kid that’s making you look unmanly—it’s your word choice.