On Babies
My mom perhaps takes it personally. It wounds her yearn. We don’t discuss babies now. Of her five children, the one most likely to have kids already has kids, he has three. My mother is already a grandmother, but it’s not enough.
We did a rundown around the dinner table once: N, the married sister, finds pregnant women revolting. I have tested to see how deep her disgust runs; you’ll just have to take me at my word that she’s the biggest no. Also, with her illness, she shouldn’t, anyway. She’s a HELL NO.
The youngest, J, has no interest in men (women ok!) nor anything even resembling domesticity. Contingent, of course, upon her future partner, J is a PROBABLY NOT.
D, the little brother, will more than likely end up impregnating someone without intending, but he hopes that he ever doesn’t. Or if he does, that the maneuver doesn’t anchor him in life. My mom admitted she secretly hopes this happens. D is a HELL NO that is actually a PROBABLY YES, because it’s not really up to him.
And then there’s me. I would love to tell my mom that I’m a HELL YES, but at the dinner table, I had to wave my hands around and shake my head from side to side very emphatically. I didn’t even want to open my mouth to explain how complicated it all is. If I were to try an explanation of the full reasons behind my stance, my mother’s brain would pulverize itself in preservation of her heart.
So, here it is, Mom, if ever you’re ready: I don’t want to have kids without having met certain criteria, and I just don’t believe I’ll ever meet that criteria. Further, I’m in no rush to see about reaching these domestic rules I’ve loosely set for myself. The idea of never having kids is not scary. No—the idea of dying without having published stuff or without having gone on adventures and written about them, a sort of documentation that Rocio Anica was a human once and, because of this, this stuff happened, and after all of which, she died—this is terrifying. If not this, then why anything?
Let’s pretend for a moment that I have a magic wand. With this wand, I’ll show you what it would take for me to have kids. Walk with me, talk with me.
Here’s a house. I need to have a house, and it needs to look like this.
Here’s my career*.
Here is my partner-in-crime.
Or, a partner-in-crime will be: compassionate, not possessive, inspired, hysterical, courageous, and self-aware. Must also LOVE doing the dishes. If I have all this stuff and I have enough time to do this and this and eat this all the time without getting fat, then I’m a HELL YES (that is actually a PROBABLY NOT).
So in conclusion, Mom, remember how Grandma had a child when she was 45? Well, I’m going to stroll with leisure toward that which drives our species forward, and I pray that all the bumps and forks and bends in the road make it one for the, well, you know, books.
*This is Miranda July. She is my real-life role model. I joke about Jennifer Lopez a lot, but in reality everything should look like Miranda July.
-
dewdropitlikeitshot reblogged this from postgradgrays
-
postgradgrays posted this
