The biological clock is a myth. Your uterus does not suddenly start knocking on your stomach, “Hello! Where’s my baby?” That doesn’t happen. But what does happen has been happening since preschool when all the cool kids got Twinkies for dessert and I had apple slices: it’s peer pressure pure and simple.
I know I’d make a terrible mother right now. I don’t want kids right now. (Doth the lady protest too much? NO! Look at how I managed with a couple of kittens. How’d I do with a couple of kids?)
But I am awash in babies. My three college roommates? All knocked up. My high school crush? Working on number two. I received three, yes, THREE baby shower invitations in the mail on the same day.
I don’t want a kid and I feel totally left out. It’s like they all have the iPhone and I’m still stuck on a Blackberry.
That’s actually true. I am still stuck on a Blackberry. I don’t have an infant or an iPhone! My life sucks.
My three college roommates and I have kept up an email chain for years. We all live in different cities around the world and, yet, we all still want to know what’s transpiring in each other’s lives.
I just found out there’s a second chain going on: the three in the family way are discussing how to avoid stretch marks. I triumph my smooth stomach. I guzzle my wine. I slip into my skinny jeans. But really? I just want to be included on that stupid email chain.
I know there are women out there like me: intent on having a few more years of barrenness–I mean freedom–before the conversation centers on diaper brands and preschool reservations. I’m just not sure where they are.
I moved specifically to a supposedly young area of town in DC: the H Street Corridor. It’s cheap enough for young artists to move to. It’s got music clubs and dance theaters. It’s supposed to be punkers and burlesque dancers and rock and rollers.
Guess what? My next door neighbor on the right side, my next door neighbor on the left side, and my next door neighbor above me ALL HAVE BABIES.
This weekend, the moms stood on my front porch and traded tips on how to get the tots in bed like they were state secrets.
I was simultaneously bored to death and super jealous I couldn’t join the conversation.
I think I’m going to ask my friend if I can borrow his five-year-old for a few years. Just until she turns seven. Or until she cries. Whichever comes first.