I Have Baby Fever, but this Earth Fever Can’t Sustain Human Life

Perhaps the most painful grief plaguing my heart is mourning the loss of motherhood before I’d ever experienced it. I want to be a mother more and more as each day passes, carry Jack’s child, grow life, raise a human to adulthood. Perhaps two. But knowing what I know, it feels . . . morally reprehensible to knowingly bring life into a dying planet, a planet that cannot feed nor water our sons and daughters.

If you’d like to learn about the technical aspects of climate change, you can read Megan’s Climate Corner, linked on the homepage. I drop a lot of links to sources, so that you can learn beyond my simplistic text. In fact, I recommend you do: I’m out of storage on my computer and can’t currently upload graphics into my articles. If you click the source link, you can see some great images, graphs, tables, etc.

But this blog is for the feelings, the person behind the science.

I feel the pressure, the desire, and the drive to procreate. My heart is so invested and yet my brain knows better. Well, actually, my brain knows the worst. And that is precisely the problem.

I had waited until I lined everything up: met and married the most wonderful man I could ever have hoped to meet, found a stable job that I absolutely love and pays well, and bought a house that we could afford. I long wondered if I would ever meet a partner with whom I could realistically imagine navigating the exciting waters of parenthood. It seemed highly unlikely, if not outright hopeless. I’m picky. I have high standards, goalposts that I myself struggle to meet on a daily basis. But alas, fate, good fortune, whatever you like to call it, brought me and Jack together and I knew I desperately wanted to meet the child that would be us, our own flesh and blood, our living, breathing embodiment of devoted, romantic love.

I want Jack’s genes. Hard. Yes, there are dirtier things I could write.

But more than that, I trust Jack with my life without question or hesitation. He has come to my medical rescue on numerous accounts for third degree burns, fainting spells, and a dislocated shoulder. He juggles a job that wakes him at 4:30 each morning with errands, house and yard work. He makes the household hum and function smoothly, all while improving it daily so that it feels cozier. He sprawls out on the floor with Milo when they play, or throws the ball far into the back yard for chasing. He looks real cute when he reads in his reclining chair, and even cuter when he falls asleep in it. How can I not imagine a tiny infant nestled under his neck, held against his chest?

It’s enough to make my heart burst. I cry every day with the want and the constant restraint. I consider Jack and I to be responsible, helpful humans who would make enthusiastic, dedicated parents. I also believe we would raise some lovely human beings, as well: a kind son or daughter striving to serve and solve in a messy, chaotic world.

But it’s not just a messy world. It’s a world in which we’re on track to lose upwards of 90% of life on Earth. Birds are dying by the million, insects by the hundreds of millions. A massive die off of more than a billion sea creatures during British Columbia’s June 2021 heat wave caused me deep psychological trauma. I’m still grappling with it. If there’s one thing I gathered from my Geoscience degree (and let’s be honest: I gathered a great deal of knowledge from those four years) it’s that the mass extinction events always, always, ALWAYS start with the ocean. The ocean goes, and all terrestrial life follows.

How can I possibly consider myself a moral person for bringing a person into this world, this planet that literally cannot support his or her life force? The time truly is ticking down. It’s not dramatization. It’s reality. The IPCC report from August 10th, 2021 was dire. Grim. The scientific, conservative consensus of 195 countries. We are, and for sensitive readers I apologize for the cursing, FUCKED. And although we could solve this with existing technology and tapering of consumption, I don’t believe we will ever muster the political will and the cooperation needed. It can’t be done. Humans ruin everything for everyone, even their own children and grandchildren.

And of course, the time is ripe to be procreating. It’s the age window. Although this is mathematically untrue, it feel as though every lady my age, plus or minus seven years, is pregnant or already a mother and beaming with utter joy. I’m happy for them, happy their families are growing, happy they experienced the magic of growing life in their wombs. Humans should look forward to rearing the next generation, to feel hope and awe when they share the magic of our blue planet. I envy these new parents, desire entry into the world myself. I strove to be as prepared for the responsibility of motherhood as I could possibly be.

And yet I hesitate, I vacillate, I weep at the drop of the hat, tear up at depictions and descriptions of pregnancy and motherhood, at the delight, trials, and tribulations of raising a wondrous human to adulthood.

So I just circle my own mind endlessly, observe my friends’ joy from a distance, meet their cute kiddos when opportunities arise. And I am acutely, painfully aware of my personal biological clock ticking down along with that of all life on Earth. My own tell-tale heart in purgatory. Tick… tick… tick.

There doesn’t seem to be a right answer, and I can’t reasonably hope that I will be wise enough to make the best choice when the clock winds down.