The one who got away — phew!
I found myself reflecting on my childfree-ness recently, after discovering that a dear old boyfriend of mine is going to become a father. This is the one who got away — and that’s a good thing.
Apart from whatever the situational reasons for the relationship’s failure, there was the unspoken question of children. I knew that he wanted a family, but because we were young and barely able to support ourselves the issue never turned into a pressing one. We could not have become parents at any point before we broke up, unless I had agreed to return to my little provincial hometown after a decade living in a big foreign city. And this would have had me swing from the ceiling before the month was out.
We kept flirting with the idea of reconciling for years
… until he met a nice girl with whom he built a solid relationship. Our emails dwindled. However, I kept in touch with his family, and to a lesser extent he did the same with mine. I visited my former in-laws, and perhaps due to emotional recall, I never discarded the possibility of rekindling our romance. Some day, some place. After he had done what he had to do and I the same.
We live on different continents, so I couldn’t really fathom the logistics of this hypothetical reunion. I never tried to work out its potential mechanics and never told him that any such thing had crossed my mind (I am not so dickish to try and mess with someone else’s relationship). I kept making and breaking plans with myself and zigzagged forward with carefree glee.
So I was surprised when I felt surprised at his imminent paternity. I knew that it was going to happen and quite soon at that, yet it left me blindsided. And a bit bereft.
Was it because it murdered my half-baked, half-assed, and almost certainly one-sided rainy day fantasy? Sure, people with children break up all the time, but not him. He made a commitment to parenting, was presumably ecstatic about it, and would reap the joys of the endeavour complying with the obligations of it all.
The deluge of ‘What Ifs’ started
What if, that first time we tried to mend the tear, I had agreed to move back to the city I loathed? I toss and turn, sleep elusive, in a bed I shared with him in a different epoch. Which really doesn’t help.
What if I had tried harder to compromise on geography the second time we decided to reconsider? Or the third one, which was so unexpected that I didn’t even ask him to follow me. Would it have worked? Would I have forgiven that unforgiving city? Would he have moved to a country he had no feel for? Would we have found a place where we could both be content?
What if.
The aircon chugs on and I am in a pool of cold sweat.
Humans are weird
When the possibility of doing something is snatched away from us we lament its loss, even though we would reject it if available. What hurts is the loss of opportunities, aka the death of youth. For example, the responsibilities and shift in focus that come with children mark the end of dreams, especially those we are not planning to pursue. That’s right, the fact that alternative lives are still an option, attainable in principle whilst not demanding action, is soothing. Their disappearance feels like bereavement.
Interestingly, I had a feeling of loss for a relationship that was going to cause me the loss of my freedom to dream. What if, however, I had adapted to the idea of having children? What if my dreams are more malleable than I imagine?
My thoughts are foggy, but the mosquito that dives into my ear when I silence the aircon keeps me from drifting off.
I snap open the laptop. I need to see in writing the reasons why my choices led to the best of all the possible lives available to me, as a German philosopher I studied in high school (Leibniz?) would say.
Were we to rekindle our relationship, a few things could happen
Scenario A: we are together until we aren’t. We break up on account of nebulous irreconcilable differences, then he goes off to breed. I hate him. I spend the following few years wondering what possessed me to make such a stupid choice. By which I mean wasting more years on a dead-end relationship. And paradoxically, when loneliness bites, denying him what he then pursued elsewhere. I hate him even more. But you can’t argue with instincts — not mine, not his.
Scenario B: I cave in and get pregnant. I feel horrible throughout, give birth (strictly a C-section while I am knocked out), fall into depression and get hooked on zombifying pills. I clearly make stupid decisions, so with those another baby. I resent the children and resent the husband, whom I divorce as soon as our spawn is self-sufficient. Then I make a fool of myself (bad financial choices, improbable toyboy etc.) trying to recoup my youth. Until I get tossed into a nursing home by offspring that are righty fucked off at having been messed with.
Scenario C: I get pregnant and change my mind halfway through. I unilaterally scramble for an abortion, alienate everybody in the process, look for a strong hook in the ceiling.
Ok, this sounds overly dramatic. But could I be happy losing sleep, worrying about diseases, cleaning up puke, shifting the focus of my romantic relationship, limiting my freedom of movement, ditching travel, numbing my brain with baby talk, saying bye-bye to the time I currently spend with people I love?
The truth of the matter
is that I am not ready, or better not inclined, to make my life a function of someone else’s. This is neither irresponsible nor selfish. Selfish is having children so that they will look after you when you are old. Irresponsible is failing to assess your ability to be a committed, selfless parent. Someone who is not going to lament a child’s demands on her time, emotions, and identity.
As the horizon lightens and the mosquito finally gives up, I fall asleep believing that I am responsible enough to not be so irresponsible as to wish that one of those IFs had come to pass.
I am glad I got away.
