On reproduction

We found out a good friend is pregnant, and not in that "Hey, we planned things out and we are so over the moon happy about it" but more in this "holygodnoway still in shock" absolutely unplanned thing out of nowhere. Admittedly, I found this to be such a relief--her uncertainty, her fear, her horror, and that tiny bit of amazement at it all. And part of my heart felt like it was breaking at the same time.

It's an inexplicable thing, this sadness that I feel about this (and don't get me wrong, I am incredibly excited for this undoubtedly gorgeous baby of theirs and I am again astounded that we get to be a part of one more huge step in her life). Perhaps it is simply realizing that we are, in fact, actually growing up. That at this age there are big things, life things, adult things that are happening as I watch friends get married, buy houses, and have babies and feeling strangely not a part of those things. Not that I want them, really (except the marriage since I already fall under that category). It is more the divide, I think, that makes me sad. That here we are, still unsettled as we know we probably won't stay in Portland permanently, renting places with no desire to own a home, and having taken measures to absolutely not get pregnant. I I love this gypsy life.

I found myself walking into the bathroom the other day after talking with my sister and had this sudden clarity of "I don't want to care about something as much as you do with a child." I felt terribly selfish and awful for thinking this, but then I stopped myself. Why should I feel guilty about those thoughts? Why should I feel like I have to feel the need to care about something that much? I care about Scott; I love him with a huge love that overwhelms me and sometimes it takes my breath away still. But this love does not leave me exhausted mentally, physically, spiritually in the same way being a mother would. I have the energy to love him mightily, to travel, to hang out, to drink (and get rip roaring drunk should I so feel), to work ridiculous hours and then sleep until ridiculous hours (and I do love to sleep), to read a book from cover to cover in one day, to not have to live by certain school districts, to make rash, stupid decisions that will only affect the two of us.

I know women who want children, who have the need to have children. I don't. And it pisses me off to no end when another woman tells me "Oh, just wait. I didn't want them at your age either, but then my clock started ticking like crazy!" I want to slap her. And I think, "Thanks for making me feel like a freak, jerk, because nothing in me is ticking nor do I need to race my expiration date (heaven forbid!)." Because let's face it: a woman's worst enemy is other women. It's solidarity until one of us makes the other jealous or makes the other feel uncomfortable about our choices.

Yes, I do like children. I babysat from 12-28 as a primary form of earning money and I was really good at it. I adore my niece and nephew and can't wait to have more of those. I adore my friends' children. They are bright, cute, funny, and snuggly. I love buying and making them gifts. But I can walk away from them because they are not mine. Mommies are probably right that I "just don't know what I'm missing," but, really, I don't think I'm missing anything (I feel pretty complete...). In fact, I am so in love with my life the wonderful, strange, beautiful way that it is right now that I simply don't want to share, and I don't have to. Not to get too geeky here, but children are like little horcruxes: a mother loses a bit of herself (I won't go so far as to say she loses a bit of her soul each time, but she does lose something) each time she has another child, and she gets further and further from the woman she was. And she should. Children should change the trajectory; parents should change because of this. It is a necessary, and perhaps natural, form of self-preservation.

I likened the pregnancy thing and having children to an ocean liner trip: All these friends are buying tickets and climbing on board the ship, taking this wonderful, amazing, thrilling journey, and I am on shore waving them goodbye, crying, knowing that I am going to miss them. I have no desire to buy a ticket and board that ship. I may never want to buy that ticket. I may have a completely different journey in my future. So mothers, wave goodbye to me from the deck and I'll wish you well. I hope you do the same for me.