I don’t think I’m ready to have a baby, because I only want to be pregnant on the weekends. On Saturdays, I long for that expectant glow and that little bump in the belly of women growing new life inside them. Not the ninth month ‘my back hurts, get this baby out of me now’ bump, more like the sixth month ‘I’m just starting to show and isn’t my fetus adorable’ bump.
But standing on the subway on cold Monday mornings, the only really tangible benefit that I can see to being pregnant is possibly getting a seat on crowded public transit. And now that women have rightfully achieved pay and social equity, people hardly offer up their coveted seats unless a woman is actually giving birth on their train.
I know I want to raise children and have a family but my disparate feelings towards pregnancy, the biological mechanism by which these lofty goals are achieved, have started to worry me. How will I know when I’m ready to be a mother? When will I want to have a baby on weekdays?
As I approach my thirtieth birthday, it seems that self-satisfied mothers are continually reminding me of my ticking biological clock and egging me on to begin procreating immediately as they have. I believe the pun is intended.
As someone who views anxiety as a pastime, I do worry about the functionality of my ovaries. But amid all the peer pressure, genetic testing, folic acid, and basal body thermometers, I have to admit that I am more fearful of motherhood. Is my hesitancy, though, an indicator of a lack of maternalism. It terrifies me that I may not have the Mommy genes, only Mommy jeans.
It is this worry that consumes me while I baby-sit my nieces, lingering in the crevices of my mind as we eat gummy-worms in our pajamas while singing and dancing to Grease tunes with ballpoint pen microphones. It is this nervousness that tugs on me while I read them bedtime stories, and tuck them into their warm and cozy beds. I hide my angst behind funny voices and distracting tickles but wonder if they can tell. I wonder if kids can instinctively sense an inability to mother.
And just as I am breaking into a nervous sweat, my increasingly frantic thoughts are interrupted as my niece throws her arms around me, kissing my neck and declaring in the sweetest six-year old voice, “Goodnight Aunty Wendy”.
And just like that I know. I know that I’ll know when it’s time. I know that I’ll know when I’m ready. In the meantime, I am going to savour the thrill of finding an empty weekday subway seat, always being sure to give it up to any women with an expectant glow and little bump.
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