I have, in recent years at least, avoided looking my life in the eyes. I’ve settled for meaningless experiences and stagnated in this shameful state I dare call my existence. But that was the old me. The new me is brave, the new me knows there are better things ahead, the new me is ready to face the music.
Let’s hit the problem at its core.
I am a healthy, averagely pleasant, hardworking young woman in her late twenties, involved in a stable relationship, and yet a terrible disappointment to my family, my species, and supposedly myself: I haven’t got children. Even worse, humanity! I’m not even pregnant. Nor have I ever been, or ever tried to become. In fact, I must be one of those child-hating-witches fighting tooth and nail against my natural procreating calling and the integrity of the human race.
In my own defence, this hasn’t always been the case. As a child, my parents, relatives and Santa Claus regularly provided me with armies of dolls of various shapes and sizes I would mother until they lost their eyes, limbs, or were forgotten in the light of a new doll army invasion. As I grew, I moved my attention to classy Barbie dolls. It’s true, some of them did have amazing careers like brain surgeon or rocket scientist, but they also raised equally fashion aware sons and daughters. No one would have imagined I’d stray so far away from my Barbie role model as an adult.
But stray I did, and in a continuous state of denial too. Silly me, thinking the best time to have a child is when you consider it to be the best time. Nonsense! The best time is when people start posting photos of their ultrasounds on Facebook. That’s the sign that your generation’s procreation train is just about to leave the station, and you’d better jump on it or else. Or else?
You end up like me.
I recently attended my highschool reunion. In a twist of faith, or perhaps as anyone in their sane mind should have expected, all my highschool girlfriends had gotten married, divorced, remarried, and had had at least one baby each. Conversation around the dinner table touched on epidurals, nappies, breast pumps and, exclusively for my sake, London weather.
It was not a sad evening by any means (it’s always fun to learn new nappy related things!), but it got me thinking. Perhaps something really was wrong with me. Perhaps there really was a missing piece in my internal structure, otherwise why had I put this off for so long? Why was I not even curious what a breast pump looked like? Why did I not google it then and there, I’ve got a smartphone for crying out loud!
Let’s fast forward a bit to present day, when V. and I are house hunting and seriously preparing ourselves for some baby making business, and I still have no idea what a breast pump looks like. I’ve got a lot of other things on my mind for some reason. Fear, doubt, scary bouts of excitement. And a plan. It’s changed very little from the original one. The plan, I mean. It still touches on money, careers, a home to live in, a sense of self worth, trust, love, a baby friendly physical and mental state. Perhaps not the most romantic, natural baby making approach. But we are building real, living and breathing human beings here, are we not? I’d rather not do it by blindly rushing towards an invented finish line, breast pump or no breast pump at
hand breast OK, I really need to google these darn things.