The Baby’s Room
Hello and happy summer. It’s been raining for forty days and nights, and I’ve been procrastinating on doing anything except obsessing over StreetEasy apartment listings and how I’m going to pack all of my books. I also have been continuously going through the early-30’s crisis known as “my life”.
Time is ticking down until I move into my own place and it’s truly all I think about. If you have talked to me in-depth or have been ~blessed~ to see me in person, you’ve probably heard me talk about my soon to be 2 bedroom apartment and that, as an offhand joke, my mother has dubbed what will be “guest bedroom”, as “the baby’s room”. And while I know she is 100000% joking, it has still been on my mind. Throw in a few friends having their first (or second) child, baby showers, and the fact that I said I’d watch my friend's dog when she goes into labor (keep that baby in there, Amanda!), I am overwhelmed. I'm just surrounded by people I love and care for entering their next big chapter. And if they’re not there yet, they’ve bought a house, gotten engaged… and me? I’m scanning adoption pages for my new cat.
Should I be more concerned about having a baby?
Adorable Brady and poor Frisky who put up with a lot.
I’m 32 and single. Best case scenario I meet someone tomorrow, fall madly in love, and am pregnant before 35...when they start using the term “geriatric pregnancy”. Which like- eat glass- I hate that so much. It’s dumb. And yes, I could use this paid for space on the internet to explain to everyone why this is so so so fucking dumb and insensitive and just rude, but, I’m not going to. Chances are, if you’re reading this and are my friend, you probably get that already. And if not, just understand how disgusting it is by reading this article.
Despite there being no chance in hell that I'll be having a child in the next year, I'm surprisingly worried about being pregnant and if I will be able to “produce an heir”. (Y’all know I read way too much historical fiction to not think of it this way so like, roll with it.) It’s nerve-wracking to think about finally being able to want something (mentally and monetarily) and then BOOM your body is like “lol lol jk you can’t do this… eggs what eggs… that shit dried up!”.
I know I want kids. I like them generally, and I think I’ll be a good mom. There’s just so much that is unknown that I don’t feel prepared for. It’s a bit bonkers that you have a baby in America and then two days later they let you take it home and are all “Good Luck”. That’s terrifying. And then you have it forever (if you’re lucky). That's… even more terrifying. I don’t know if I can do that. And, even more importantly, I don’t want to regret doing it. I want to live the life that I am so very carefully curating for myself. To eat, travel, drink, sing, dance, and not have to worry about anyone at home except my cat. And I worry that it makes me selfish. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with being selfish. But, it still worries me.
So, there’s a fine line to walk here- waiting for the right time for myself, and risking never having the chance to do so. As the self-proclaimed queen of “what-ifs”, I can almost feel my anxiety spiral out of control when I think about this for too long (probably why I wrote about it). I know realistically the choices I make only need to matter to me, but I don’t know if I even trust myself to decide on what to eat for lunch, let alone when to bring a child into the world. A crying, screaming, belting, adorable, giggly baby who has my dimples and lungs. And their father’s lack of an anxiety disorder. A squirmy thing that will one day grow up to drive me insane and cost me money, but make me so proud. A person who makes it all worth it.
In the meantime, I think I’ll name my cat “Baby”.
