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As a modern woman in her twenties who drinks tequila more than water, I’m supposed to wear pants suits, be disgusted by sonograms, and hunt children for sport. When I think about my own pregnancy, I’m supposed to cringe at the thought of my dress size being double digits, and fear for my poor, little vagina which will never ever be the same. When I see little kids running around, I’m supposed to look at them as the thieves who stole my friends, the dirty brats that are ruining the dinner party, and the 3-foot tall inconveniences who are sucking the youth and fun right out of their parents, whom I pity. Your life is over once your children’s lives begin, because for the next 18 years, you’re at the mercy of these ill-mannered mini-people who have no concept of others. That’s what I’m supposed to think. But I don’t.
I’ve got baby fever, and I’ve got it bad. Babies are the only thing I’ve always known I wanted in my life, and I’ve always wanted them by the age 27, which I make sure to mention on every date. Men love this. They’re just so precious with their tiny hands, and their high voices, and big smiles. I’ve actually become pretty creepy about it. When I see children in public, I try to play with them, and talk to them. It starts with a little wave, or peek-a-boo session, but I like to see how far the parents will let me take it. I wish they were like dogs. Can I pet your baby? Does he bite? It’s weird…it’s definitely weird, but children are like my drug, and I just want to get my fix. If there weren’t laws against it, I’d probably kidnap a child — not forever, I’m not a monster, just for the day.
Unfortunately, every month my period comes to remind me that I’m 24 years old, still single, and still without child. It’s like my mother, but it stops after four days. Conveniently coinciding with the most emotional time of the month — a time during which I once screamed at my mother for packing me a tuna salad sandwich (I’d TOLD her like 500 TIMES that it smells, and if she packed it, I’d just have to throw it out at the bus stop and STARVE, but she just doesn’t LISTEN!), then burst into tears because I didn’t know how to handle my 12-year-old emotions — I’ve had a breakdown or two.
Most recently, I was just sitting at my desk, trying to make jokes about becoming a spinster when it hit me: I might actually become a spinster. I immediately picked up all my stuff, ran out of the building to “take a lunch” at like, 11AM, and called my mother hysterically crying:
“Mommy.” I always call her mommy when I cry. It lets her know that in case she thinks she’s going to care about herself that day, she’s got another think coming, because I need her maternal instinct to be in overdrive.
“What, baby? What’s wrong?”
“I want a baby!!”
I hear her trying to hold back laughter, but I ignore it for the sake of dramatics.
“I was just sitting at work when I realized in one month, I’m going to be 25 in six months! And…and…I’m no *gasp* closer *gasp* to getting married. I’m not going to have babies by the time I’m 27! If I want to be engaged for at least a year and dating for at least two years, I need to meet my husband six months ago! And I’m not even going to have time to have a year to just enjoy my marriage. I’ll need to get pregnant immediately. And I’m only getting older, and I’m scared it’s never going to happen!”
“You have to calm down, sweetie. I can barely understand you. Why do you need to have them by 27?”
“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO BE AN OLD MOM!!!” Idiot. “If I don’t have a child by the time I’m 30, I will literally just pull my own uterus out through my vagina, because it will have done me no good. I am NOT going to be one of those women who’s still having children after she’s 35. I’ve taken health classes. I know the risks. And if I want to have five children, it’s NOT going to happen by the time I’m 35. There’s just no time. It’s like, no matter how I do the math, it’s just not going to happen.”
She went on to talk me out of having five children, because they cost money, apparently, and I drove around for a little before returning to work. Luckily, we work right above a pediatrician’s office, so upon returning to work, I had another breakdown in the parking lot, but I got caught by a coworker. Unqualified to console me, due to his lack of ovaries and give-a-shit, my cry-face was met with laughter.
“You’re still so young! You’ve got plenty of time! You’re being ridiculous!”
This is my least favorite thing to hear when I’m upset — I’m being ridiculous — especially when it comes to this. My body has been begging me for a child since before we realized Furbys were creepy. It’s not that ridiculous that my psyche is like, “Umm, what the fuck?” It’s even begun haunting my dreams. Just the other night, I had a super-emotional dream about breastfeeding, and it was totally realistic in every way, except that my tit deflated like a Capri Sun as my fictional dream-baby nursed.
It’s not that I’m ready for motherhood right this second (I am. Just kidding. No, I’m not), I am just ready to be on the path to motherhood before my children are at high risk for Downs Syndrome. My eggs are rotting as we speak, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to real a
sperm donor financial provider husband in with rotten eggs.
My only options at this point are to murder my back-up husband’s girlfriend, so he’ll have a little time to mourn and be available to me for marriage by the time I’m ready to pop out some offspring, or start drinking even more. Lots of people get pregnant that way. The whole “I hate condoms” thing is about to come back and bite you in the penis, fellas.