First they pester you with “When are you getting married?!?” Then when you finally get married, even before the wedding reception is over, they start demanding offspring. Everywhere we go, everyone wants to know, “WHEN ARE YOU HAVING KIDS?!?”
For us, this question was a hot topic even before our wedding. My mother retired a few years ago
and decided that spoiling her grandchildren was the only way to spend her golden years. She even educated me in the process of making babies in case the reason she had no grandchildren yet was because I hadn’t figured it out, “You know, you don’t have to be married to have kids…”For a long time I had some respite from my dad, who forever and ever will see me as his little girl – even when I am post-menopause. But then at our wedding he pulled out this doozy at the end of his toast: “And please, have children soon. We are getting old.” And with that, our alliance was broken. He had joined the dark side.The questions and the pressure don’t bother Mr. S and me. We’re accustomed to the lack of filter my entire family seems to suffer from and as long as he and I are on the same page of life (we both want children eventually, just not yet), we can easily fend off the peanut gallery together. Sometimes it’s a polite, “Oh no, not yet, maybe next year,” and other times (especially when dealing with my mother) it’s a face plant into a throw pillow until she changes the subject.It’s difficult to justify to myself and to others why exactly we are waiting – I’ve just entered my 30s (do you hear the tick tock?), we’re financially secure, we bought a whole house with multiple rooms, we’ve had a lot of time to enjoy each other pre-baby, etc. So when I try to buy us some time with, “We’re just not ready yet.” I myself am perplexed. Why are we not yet ready? And how will we know when we are??
Honestly, I don’t put much active thought into procreating (my mantra is it will happen when it happens), but apparently my subconscious has been wrestling with the idea of children and it is telling me DEFINITELY NOT YET. This is a dream (or nightmare, you decide) that I had a few days ago:
I return home from somewhere and am greeted by my newborn baby boy. A group of faceless women had been looking after him for me while I was out. I pick him up and unlovingly hold him at arm’s length, assess his outfit (not to my liking), and place him into the grocery cart that serves as his stroller. I wheel the grocery cart into the next room where I change his outfit no less than five times. Someone calls my name and I leave the room to answer. When I return, baby boy and grocery cart are gone. Lost. I swear I left it right here… I lethargically move from room to room half-heartedly trying to locate my child. I never feel panicked, just annoyed that I have to go through all the trouble of finding him. Ugh, this blows. After searching all the rooms, I decide that he’ll turn up eventually and leave the house to go to a Chippendale’s show. As I’m getting comfortable with a cocktail in my front row seat, my son appears on stage – except he is now a toddler and wearing leather ass-less chaps. He’s the main attraction, body rockin’ along with the rest of the male ensemble and the women are going CRAAAZZZYYY. My initial reaction is not shock, shame, or guilt, but rather, “Wow, they really do grow up so fast!”
It was at this point that I woke up slightly perturbed that even in my dreams I was a terrible parent, and yet I was still entertained by the absurdity of it all (if I ever come across miniature ass-less chaps, I’m buying five pairs. My future children have no idea what is in store for them). I got out of bed thanking my subconscious for giving me a surefire way to know when the time for motherhood is right. The answer: when the image of my hypothetical two year old son grinding up on some hussy who is stuffing dollar bills down his G-string diaper is no longer emblazoned into my mind. Something tells me it’s gonna take a while for that memory to fade.