The Clock Ticks On and the Pressure Builds

Ah, don’t you love the crushing weight of parental expectations? Now I have two mothers (unintentionally and 100% without malice) wordlessly scolding me for not being pregnant or already a mother. I’m the younger of two daughters. Jack is the third of four children. Our older siblings have more or less determined that they don’t want to be parents, or if they entertain the life-altering role of parenthood, do not plan to undertake the endeavor for another few years, at least. Jack’s younger brother and his wife already have a child, who is nearing his first birthday. Needless to say, eyes have shifted to Jack and I in a way that says, “Those two have done it. What are you waiting for?”

Normally, I try to keep this blog focused solely on Jack and I, two consenting adults who are fully aware of the topics of discussion being presented. Up until now, I don’t think I’ve really mentioned a lot of detail regarding any family members. But this past week, Jack received a package from his mum. In it were a few stickers, a t-shirt that said “Hit the Road Jack” with a picture of a donkey (jackass) in the back, and a note that read, “Shall I call you dog father?”

I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except for that one question on that one little note. Yes, we acquired a second dog named Arturo. Her first question when hearing the news of the new puppy was, “Ah, so no human babies for you, then?” Ouch. I know the shirt was supposed to be a funny gag, but coupled with that note, it just made us feel like jackasses. “So that’s what you think of us. We’re taking our time making the decision to start a family and somehow WE are the useless assholes, the butt of the joke.” It cut pretty deep, but I know that wasn’t the desired outcome for sending the parcel.

Without any conscious effort and without any intent to do harm, this mindset of “BABIES BABIES BABIES” discounts all that we’ve worked to achieve: stable and fulfilling careers, a nice first home, two cute, fluffy dogs. “Oh. No children? Let me swipe through to the next cutest baby photo.” Even though any family member reading this would ardently disagree, I can feel the gaze on my uterus, can feel the penetrating eyes of mothers who came before waiting for me to take up the mantle, can feel the lack of deep, reverent respect emanating from those who wish Jack would just knock me up already. The expectations and the pointed looks and the frequent questions make me feel as though I’m not a full person, won’t ever be a full person, until I grow another human inside me. And then the moment I do become pregnant, I’m sure strangers who don’t know me will think all kinds of things. Whore. Slut. Conceited. Self-obsessed. What have you.

Now, I don’t actually believe anyone, least of all my own family, is actively disrespecting me, or Jack, or our decision to wait until we’re ready. It’s all subtle and implicit, more likely the result of my over sensitivity. Obviously I have a lot of emotional baggage about motherhood and the state of the world. Seriously, who writes an entire blog about being an anxious climate scientist madly in love with their whip-smart, sexy husband, dreaming of bearing and raising his children all while being horrified by the ramifications of our collective human damages on this life-giving planet? Just me, I guess. Writing into the void, grappling with all that I want and all that I feel lies in the way, preventing me from reaching that elusive summit. Life, even in the wealthiest nation in the world, is just so damn dangerous and feels incrementally worse every morning I wake up. We aren’t making progress, we’re just slowly battling the elements and each other.

How can I be reasonably sure that we will provide safety and stability for our kids when we can’t realistically depend on our food, transportation, and social infrastructure to deliver the goods and services we’ve come to expect? Are we savvy enough to learn to forage and hunt when Big Agro fails and we must turn to more regionalized, localized food webs? Where is the best place for us to move to ensure we have adequate waters supplies in the future? These are all the questions I’m thinking of, but all I ever get asked is: “When are you and Jack having children?”

Well, frankly, there doesn’t appear to be a good time to gestate, birth, and raise children. And because Jack and I hesitate, we are not family members that make our elders proud. Parenthood is, in this culture, the pinnacle of achievement, the milestone that transforms childless coupled adults into respectable partners worthy of praise and celebration. The most cynical side of me thinks, “Just because some jerkwad can successfully ejaculate without a condom doesn’t make him good father material.” But here we are. Anyone can become a mother or father just through the force and magic of biology. Not everyone is well-suited or even interested in the responsibilities and obligations required of them, even after the child has entered the world stage. Folks rush to show support and joy for people who probably should have used protection (looking at you, teenage parents), but skimp on grace, patience, and humility for those who take their time and contemplate the full scope of the journey before taking the plunge.

The fact is, we’re only physically capable of procreating at a young age (seriously, how unsettling is it that girls get their periods around 12 years old?) because live was brutal and deadly before we revolutionized the way we obtain food, shelter, and medicine. Emotional maturity, especially emotional maturity in parents, is a topic that doesn’t get discussed nearly enough. Learning to delve deeply into one’s inner self, to understand how emotions swell and deflate, what internal and external triggers stimulate certain reactions, requires lifelong commitment. It takes a lot to know oneself, to know how best to conduct behavior in a way that benefits everyone. It’s a repeating cycle of dysfunction to have emotionally stunted or immature young humans going on to raise more humans. Who is the role model for anger management? For stress relief? For conflict resolution? For loving, supportive, long-term, committed romantic partnerships? The U.S. has one of the highest divorce rates in the world. Yikes.

I know for a fact that Jack and I will never divorce. We joke frequently about how we got our “slut years” out of the way. (Sorry, mom, if you’re reading this! I honestly have no idea who, if anyone, takes the time to read this blog or any of my other writings). Jack and I both “sampled the wares”, if you will, before finding one another. And when at last we met, we recognized quickly that we were “The One” for each other. The One better than all the others, the best fit, the best friendship, the best camaraderie, the best inside jokes, the best sex, the best snuggles, the best musical duets, the best dancing, the best of everything we each had to offer, given freely and enthusiastically to one another, like a freshwater spring gushing forth in perpetuity. So doesn’t that qualify us for parenthood? Wouldn’t we make a good enough team to be successful in keeping our children fed, housed, and mentally and emotionally stimulated? Haven’t we proven ourselves responsible and thoughtful enough to grow happy, healthy, well-adjusted humans (in theory)? I suppose we won’t ever know until Jack and I find ourselves with child.

Four or five days before writing this post, I had my first ever pregnancy dream. I wasn’t visibly pregnant. In fact, I had no idea I was pregnant in the beginning. Jack and I were traveling internationally, staying in a hostel. One of the other guests, a woman about our age said, “Please excuse me, I don’t mean to make assumptions. I noticed your wedding bands and um . . . your ample . . . um . . . features.” Finally she spit it out. “Are you pregnant?”

I laughed at this dream woman. It’s important to note that I didn’t recognize a single other soul in this dream beyond Jack. “Pffffff, no. I can’t be. I have an IUD. How could I be pregnant?” Then I looked down and remembered the alcoholic beverage in my hand, cursing myself. “Am I really pregnant?” I wondered silently. And, in classic nonsensical dream logic, the woman offered me a fresh, unused pregnancy test. I went to the shared bathroom, closed myself in a stall, and took the test. Lo and behold, a little pink plus sign.

Fuck.

First, I panicked. I had been drinking! Right off the bat, I failed. My fetus was swimming in alcohol. I was killing my own dream baby. What kind of stupid irresponsible idiot drinks while pregnant? I loathed myself in that moment.

Next, I became lucid enough to start questioning my reality. “This can’t be happening. Jack and I aren’t traveling. We had no plans to leave the country.”

Then, the inklings of my waking life became more tangible. “I can’t be pregnant! I won’t fit into my wedding dress in five months’ time!”

I can’t say I enjoyed this dream. It was shameful. Stressful. I felt like the scum of the earth, unknowingly poisoning my own flesh and blood and then being vain enough to give more of a damn about my wedding dress than about the dream consequences of my dream actions.

To reiterate and be perfectly clear: I am not pregnant. I have never been pregnant. I have no idea what it feels like, how the bodily sensations unfold over time, what it feels like with the spine and organs shift to accommodate the new baby. But I'd like to know someday. When I’m ready. If I’m ever ready.

For anyone reading this who reached the end, I’m planning on keeping my IUD inserted for the full duration of its 10-year lifespan. I had it inserted in December 2013, when i was 21 years old. After that, Jack and I may still choose to wait, opting for birth control options that don’t require the presence of painful, T-shaped metal sitting inside my womb. So much effort for so much cultural shame and stigma. For now, I’ll continue to endure the loaded questions, the endless images of everyone else posting multiple pictures and videos a day of their children. Women like me, women who hold complex and critical opinions of our child rearing culture, are not particularly popular. Baby or bust! It’s all about winning the game of evolution. Those who don’t wish to participate by their very nature don’t deserve the best life has to offer.