C’mon, have babies / Blogher
Being a parent sort of snuck up on me. Between deciding on who I wanted to spend my life with and figuring out graduate school, I got pregnant. I wasn’t really ready to give up a lot of the things that “good” parents give up when nature selects them, but I figured nature owed me. After all, I had nature to thank for swollen limbs, hemorrhoids and a house with no liquor. It wasn’t until the middle of my pregnancy that I actually started to enjoy it, and feel excited about what was ahead of me. It takes a lot to pass the point of “Have I just ruined my life?” and settle into “It’s my life, this is how I’ll enjoy it.” Because of all this, I like to think I can identify with women my age who seem downright petrified at the thought of reproducing, or terrified of facing their newborn.
After hearing the news, most of my friends approached me with what they assumed would be just what I needed to hear. “Oh my God, how could this happen?” and “Oh Paige, I’m so sorry.” All the negativity had me digging my own grave before I even had a name picked out for the little bugger. The friends who were supportive seemed to be scared to talk to me about it, as if pregnancy was some sort of highly contagious affliction that would end their lives just as it ended mine if they got too close. Occasional emails and letters asking how I was doing were plenty, but I never felt I could call anyone up and just complain about it or rave about it without hesitation. Pregnancy scares young women, and rightly so, but not for the reasons we’re taught. Some of Mike’s friends weren’t much better, providing numerous pats on the back combined with such inspirational phrases as “Oh shit dude, what are you going to do?” and “You’re the father, right?”
Most women are just starting to suffer a quarter-life crisis when their friends start getting married and pregnant. I was too, I just didn’t have the chance to work through the depression of post-college reality before starting a domestic life. Since giving birth to my son, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many people (women and men) who call themselves “Childfree”. You know, because having children is an affliction not unlike H.I.V. or S.A.R.S., it’s best to steer clear. These people proclaim their freedom from children by discussing such important topics as “How Can They Let Their Children Act Like That?” and “All That Crying, Who Needs It?”
While I can sympathize with and even respect people who choose not to reproduce, I have to laugh at the urgency with which these individuals discuss childbirth and parenting. They’re so worried about losing their own identity to a child, they’ve totally dismissed the notion that it could be possible to be an even better person because of them. Because being a twenty-something with no prospects other than a killer party on Saturday and an impressive DVD collection is so incredible, they can’t imagine ever doing anything else with themselves.
I remember sitting at a coffee shop with a (childless) friend from work when I was about 7 months along, talking to her about a band that was coming to town. I wanted to see them, but didn’t want to stand in the smoky bar. I mentioned how it was sort of disappointing that there were so many things I had to give up during pregnancy, and how it sometimes made me feel old and lonely. I was venting, complaining, whining, you name it. I felt sorry for myself, but I didn’t want my baby to go away. She looked at me dispassionately and said, “Well, get used to it, kiddo.”
At the time, I figured she was right, assuming that my life was over, and there was no way I’d ever be able to do anything fun ever again in my entire life and thank you very much Mother Nature for ruining a perfectly good party girl who just wants to be the convivial and merry with her friends. Now, over two years later, I think back to that conversation and consider it one of those moments where I should have said a dozen different things. How did she know? What in the world did she know about having a kid or being pregnant or having a life? She was a single 28 year old who hated her job and couldn’t keep a boyfriend because she was too clingy. She’d have a baby in an instant if a man said he wanted to marry her, and it was all that angst and disappointment that made her want to impress me with her “freedom”. Free from what? Diapers? Bedtime? Diarrhea?
Of course you lose a certain amount of freedom when you have a child, but I’m here to tell you that you shouldn’t be afraid. Well, you should be afraid, but not of losing your identity. You’re just as likely to lose yourself falling for the jackass who tells you how to wear your hair and how to dress as you are having a child. I’ve worked damn hard to retain my own ridiculous self. Once I was able to actually tear myself away from my kid, I started socializing again, and going out with friends and seeing shows, movies, and art exhibits.
Perhaps most importantly, I found other women online (between work and caring for my son, I rarely got a chance to meet new people, barely fit in seeing the old ones) like me. I found women who were married, single and everything in between with children and lives. Women who stayed at home, women who worked, women painted, laughed, sang, wrote and shared their lives so frankly, I often forgot it wasn’t all for me.
So this weekend when so many of you that have been a sort of inspiration for me are in California getting your Blogher on, have a drink for me and have fun! I’m in Germany or I’d probably crash your party. Until we meet again, I’ll be lingering around the chat room on and off this weekend to see what you lovelies are up to.
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