When I was younger I wanted a large family, I thought five kids would be a good number. I like odd numbers and three seemed too few, although doable if I had to. The older I got, the more certain I was that I wanted children, but time began to run low on my fertile years. So as the clock ticked faster and faster and my living circumstances stayed rather unfriendly to the familial structure my mindset began to evolve. New York City is not an easy place to raise children, and though I very much admire those who do it, I never really wanted to. Then I fell in love with my husband and heard the ticking of the inevitable biological clock even louder. I was not ready, but my body didn’t care, it was now or never. Except . . . it turns out the man I love and married is sterile.
This should be my cue to panic. I want children, I have always wanted them and now you tell me after I’m in love with you that it is not an option? What the hell am I supposed to do now, is there a sperm bank nearby? Should I break up with you and . . . wait a minute . . . I’m feeling . . . sigh. I am feeling relief. Huh, didn’t see that coming. For the first time in a couple of years I don’t need to worry about my body clock or societal expectations of family. It turns out that having a reason to not breed was just what I needed to stop stressing over it. What I have realized in the intervening years is that I really don’t think I want kids after all. I love them, but I’d really rather just visit the zoo than live there.
What is the most interesting thing for me during the transition from desperate to breed to no chance in hell, is that I feel relieved and okay about it. Society and our families put so much pressure on us to have kids that often I don’t think we actually take the time to decide for ourselves if that is what we want. That pressure added to the biological time bomb of being a woman equals an almost hysterical feeling that you are somehow failing yourself, nature, and everyone else that populates the Earth by not contributing a zygote of your own. When choice is taken away from you sometimes the result is different than what you might expect.
Today I am a relatively happy, healthy, slightly crazy 36-year old woman who is living with the fact that I will likely never be a Mom. This wouldn’t even be so shocking to me on its own if it were not for the fact that I am adopted. I do not know one single person that is blood related to me. I have never looked in the face of another person and seen a resemblance. For all intents and purposes I am a bit of an iceberg, adrift and barren. I cannot now look to my own biological children to save me, so I’m learning to do that for myself.
So often people have children to give them purpose or a connection, I have neither on my own and no chance of that happening through Motherhood. I guess it’s time to woman up, dig deep and create one for myself. I still have days when I think I might like a baby, then I spend time with one and realize I am always glad when I get to go home. Children are wonderful and I look forward to years of getting to know my niece and my honorary niece, but I think I’m okay on my own. The crucial thing I keep reminding myself is that I have been on my own for so long, that it is about time I learn how to do it right. Jeff’s sterility gave me that chance. I’m not entirely alone anymore, I have him, but I’ve also been given back a piece of myself. It’s a new chance to get me right without the promise of distractions or the infinite love of my child. It’s funny how my husband’s shooting blanks actually hit exactly the right target.
No comments:
Post a Comment