Mr. Stork has dropped a bomb on my world. Don’t worry, I have avoided his successive fire, but it seems everyone all around me is spontaneously reproducing. Ten, yes ten, of my facebook friends are pregnant or have just had a baby, not to mention the dozens of my friends who are recently engaged, married, or attached at the hip to some perfect partner. And it leaves me left to wonder, did I miss a memo or something?
Am I to assume that once you hit a certain age, my age, that you are meant to couple and make little couplettes? Did I miss that guidance class which taught students that by the time they’re 30, the biological clock should be in full swing? All I remember was getting condoms and maxi pads and told to be successful. Go to school girls, find a career girls, be independant girls, make lots of money girls. No one told me about starting a family. So why does everyone else around me seem to know something about this time of life that I don’t?
At first, I was oblivious to it all. Oh look, Jane’s engaged, that’s wonderful. Wow, Suzy is pregnant with her first child; I can’t wait to see the pictures. Lynn and David are having their second child, what amazing parents those two are. It was all warmth and sunshine until all of a sudden, every time I logged onto facebook, there was another announcement, then another, then another.
I was beside myself. I was fucking mad.
I logged on one morning, and the first thing posted on my wall was a picture of an overly expensive piece of jewelry with the comment “this is what my wonderful husband bought for me for birthing our beautiful baby. I’m so lucky.”
That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I was furious. I angrily called one of my few single friends, ranting and raving about how my facebook page, my safe little connection to the outside world, my little place to be an asshole without consequence, was being bombarded- downright invaded- by familial bliss. It was disgusting.
I barred the woman who posted the picture, and anyone else who put similar posts on my wall.
And I was happy. I was once again the quirky single gal on facebook, making asshole status updates and laughing at suggestive comments and links posted. But eventually I began to facebook stock those women who I had barred from my page. I began to peruse pictures of their little ones, and smile at their adorable smiles and outfits. And a little thought popped in my head…
Am I jealous?
No! Never! Why would I be! I’m a free woman. I sleep in till noon when I like. I go to bed at 3am when I like. I can drink champagne on a week night. Why would I be jealous?
Now I’m passed the halfway point of my 30th year. I’m now closer to 31 than I was to 30. And with the coming of autumn, I’ve felt a shift in my body. I can no longer party till the sunrises. After three glasses of wine, I feel like going to bed, not going dancing. The idea of spending two nights in a row away from home makes me a little nauseous.
And babies make my uterus leap.
It’s embarrassing. It’s uncontrollable. But now, when I see a baby, my heart flutters and I can’t help but grin from ear to ear. And I’m left with this confused, what-the-fuck, feeling in the pit of my stomach. Frankly, it’s gross.
Now there are some rational reasons for these crazy feelings. First, the colder weather always makes me feel like staying at home with a good book. And I do enjoy a good cuddle with my fluffy cat. So how is wanting to cuddle with a baby any different?
And I will admit now that I have been dating someone on the regular. Nothing super special yet, no monogamous promises made. I’m just simply spending time with someone who is worth spending time with. But we are at that “we just met and can’t get enough of each other” stage, that stage when a couple holds hands at inappropriate times, and stare into each other’s eyes saying nothing while the waitress awkwardly waits for them to order. The stage that is so uncomfortable for outsiders to watch, yet feels so glorious for the ones involved. Maybe it’s because I’m enveloped in these new feelings of affection that I’ve begun to feel new warmth for little ones.
Or maybe it’s because I’m quickly realizing that my days of youthful fertility are numbered, and if my thirty’s pass by as quickly as my twenties did, then I, in my singledom, am hooped!
But could this really be my biological clock ticking? Has television been right all this time and women, when approaching their mid thirties become desperate to procreate? Is this really my body sending my brain subliminal messages that it’s time to make babies?
Excuse me for a moment while I pop another pill.
picture taken from http://monkeyworks.wordpress.com/page/4/
