A funny thing happens the second you get married…people start asking when you are going to have children. And although I adore kids, I have to say I loathe the question. Besides the fact that it’s extremely rude, none of your business, and I haven’t even enjoyed married life for 2 seconds, there’s more to that answer than I ever imagined.
The truth is, I’m not sure if I will ever want to have a child of my own, which comes as much of a shock to me as it does to you. Especially considering I’ve been naming arbitrary children since age 5, baby-sitting since 11, and dreaming of a family of my own since 18.
For the longest time I knew I wanted 2 kids – a girl first, then a boy – and if I end up with two of a kind, I would have 4 because an even-numbered family means nobody gets left out. I knew I would start having babies at 30, old enough to be mature and well established, but young enough to not have grey hair at their college graduation. I knew I would be a stay-at-home Mom, President of the PTA, Girl Scout Cookie Mom, and soccer game snack provider.
What I didn’t know is that all of that would change.
As I near 30, my original deadline for starting a family, I keep pushing that number back – 32, 33, 35 – anything to secure more time. More time to define myself. More time to have my Husband all to me because I don’t like sharing. More time for us to build a life we are proud of, that makes us happy. And the closer we get to that, the more I realize that doesn’t include children.
Does that make me selfish? Heartless? Am I missing a big picture here or am I slowly starting to realize that my future does not include mini-me’s running around?
Maybe years down the road I will get to a point where I am ready to share my Husband. Maybe I will get to a point where I can balance my career with a family. Maybe I will get to a point where I realize this feeling is just a phase that finally passed.
Or maybe…I won’t.