When I married my ex, I told him that I did not want children. There was absolutely no interest in getting pregnant, breastfeeding or saying the word “no” repeatedly while chasing a three-year-old just itching to get into trouble. Kids were out of the question. Not for me. No thank you.
We spent a decade together and ended the marriage about eight months before I turned 30. A family unit, especially one with children, seemed to have gotten further and further away from me. And then a light bulb went off. It’s not that I didn’t want kids… it’s that I didn’t want kids with him.
One of my closest girlfriends has two lovely spawn — a boy and a girl. The day her daughter was born, she texted me, “Dude. You’ve gotta get one of these.” I’ve never seen her happier, really. Even with all the shit the rascals bring, she is overjoyed when her daughter holds her hand, or wants to dress up like a princess. Naturally, I have avoided that household for years. Heaven forbid I go over for mimosas and leave with a swollen uterus.
For being 30, I’m technically in a good place. I have a career, a home, a ridiculous dog, a closet with clothes in it, a bank account with a positive balance, a stamped passport, etc. Things are great.
And yet, here is the dilemma. That at the age of 30, when I have maybe 10 good years left (or five, according to my ob/gyn), I find myself single in a city rampant with Tinder hook-ups, and a needle in the haystack search for something more meaningful. The sudden desire for a family.
While I don’t have any idea of specifics, there is one thing I do know: after watching my single mother struggle, I have no intention of raising children alone. I need a gladiator in the fight against the loss of sleep, the horrid eau-de-diaper, the terrible twos, twelves, thirteens… in short, a partner. Someone who I can count on. Someone who will remind me that I do enjoy sex and should still make time for it, no matter how tired I am. Someone who will cook breakfast because I have no energy to make a pot of coffee, much less eggs. Someone who will want kids as much as I do, and hopefully, for the same reasons.
Look, I’m overthinking this, I know. But I don’t want kids because they’ll smell nice (they don’t) or because they’ll always love me (they won’t). I want a family that includes children because all the shit I’ve obtained in my 30 years of existence is, essentially, meaningless. It’s just stuff. And it doesn’t matter if it is nice stuff because I can’t take it with me. What I can take with me is the knowledge that I managed to leave a tiny piece of myself behind, and, hopefully, learned how to love without reservation.
Shit, you guys. It’s going to be a long haul.
