Omigod. You Made That!
As I am fast approaching my mid-thirties (and infertility, for that matter), people in my life are getting married and procreating. Co-workers will gather around the recent procreator amongst us and oohh and aahh at baby pictures. I don’t have a child and have never experienced pregnancy (a.k.a. foreign creature growing inside of me experience), so I often have a detached perspective about the process of making a tiny replica of myself.
I’ll get around to doing it one of these days. Never fear, Mom and Dad. I will, too, one day become a procreator. As for now, I like to observe the process from afar. I’ve gotten criticism for not becoming a mother yet. I’ve gotten advice that I should never become one anyway, due to my inclination to be career driven and work long hours opposed to vacuuming or learning how to prepare edible food.
At 23, I was chastised at a gathering where I was the only woman there who had not made a baby. One of my old childhood friends commented about some kind of baby activity. “Imee wouldn’t know. She’s not a mother.”
Everyone laughed a hearty laugh. It was one of those comments women like to say jovially, in order to conceal the real intended sharp sting of derision.
So, I laughed, too, a hearty laugh and said, “Well, I’ve been so busy going to college, but what would you know about that? You’re not even a high school graduate.”
Okay. I didn’t say that. I wanted to though. Damn it. I really did, but I let the mothers have their day. Almost anyone can make a baby for god sakes! But, damn it! Calculus, Pathophysiology, and Biological Cognitive Psychology are really hard!
That was almost a decade ago and I’m still childless and carefree. I still do whatever I want, come home at odd hours (4pm) from a night of partying, and sit in bed all day writing. These are the things I hear you can’t do when there are little ones around. I’m happy to live like this until the right time comes. Maybe the right time will be after a month long Tequila bender and I forget to be careful (more likely) or maybe I’ll meet the right guy that I honestly believe I can live with (less likely).
Whatever the case, as I held my dear friend, Melissa’s adorable baby, Aiden, the realization of what baby-making is really about, hit me. I looked at Melissa and said, “Omigod. You made this.” I looked into Aiden’s pleasant happy little face and held his little baby hands. “Melissa, you made him!”
She smiled at me and said, “I know. And you will make one, too.”
And I will. Just not right now.
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