The clock is ticking. Whenever I get a moment of peace in an otherwise hectic life, I hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. And the thought is, I will have deformed babies.
Not even, I will have no babies. Surely that’s the most likely case for the over-the-fertility-hill of ladies ages 35 and up, up, up. But no. It’s always deformed lumps of skin with multiple eyes that will serve as a life-long reminder that because I waited too long I sentenced another being to a life of pain and suffering.
Then I ask myself, Couldn’t you love a deformed baby, you selfish no-good so and so? Do you think there’s something wrong with five eyes, you shallow ego maniac? I find myself forcing a future me to love Rosemary’s Baby before I’ve even gotten the thrill of being impregnated by the devil.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock, while I have these stupid thoughts.
That special feeling never came. The one that everyone promised would swallow me whole, make me pant at the sight of tiny clothing, make me yearn to brush the face of an infant with the pad of my thumb, make me weep at the thought of others getting impregnated around me. But it didn’t happen.
That’s what I was waiting for. I longed to be consumed by it and cry for it and fight for it. I wanted to beg to have a baby deep in my belly because then I could feel certain that it was a good choice no matter the circumstances. Instead I still think, We don’t have a house. We don’t have solid, unwavering employment. We don’t have enough time, patience, or selflessness to give a child all it deserves.
I do watch moms and dads and their babies in public. I do sometimes think, I’d like one. But it’s on the level of, I’d like a size 6 bottom. If I was good enough, then I’d already have it.
If I had another five years to wait, I’m pretty sure I’d beg for it. In the meantime it somehow seems that if I’m not begging for a baby, then I don’t deserve one. I’m trying to overcome that feeling, despite my better judgement.
Because Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. That 35th birthday is right around the corner now.