I went shopping for a present for a friend of mine. She recently gave birth to her first child; a baby girl. We planned a visit to the newborn in two days and holding her will probably be inevitable. There’s a part of me that really would like to hold this baby, you know, to get some practice in for the future. There’s another part of me that wouldn’t touch a baby (any baby – not necessarily this one) with a ten foot pole. Just thinking about where this baby resided not even two weeks ago, is making me a bit queasy. Not forgetting my clumsy nature and the baby’s fragile one.
Admittedly, I’ve been thinking about having children of my own for about a year now, but now’s not the time. We live in a house that’s too small, and I’ve got a husband without a permanent job but with a certain reluctance when it comes to – even discussing – having children. I know it’s not uncommon for men to show this lack of enthusiasm regarding the subject, but I’m still kind of bummed out about it. I think that it’s mainly to do with certain restrictions on his freedom that starting a family will have. I can’t help but let his attitude on the matter feed my insecurities. He even blamed me for having flapping ovaries. I was on the brink of telling him: “Well, duh, I’m twenty-seven!” I didn’t want to be a young mother, but I wouldn’t like to become an old one either. It also doesn’t help that I’m in a profession where most of my colleagues love children (I’m a teacher), and the colleagues my age are all starting their families. It’s like all of a sudden everyone is having babies.
The fact that my friend, who I’ve known since we were thirteen, is now a mother continues to astound me. How did we get old so fast? Twelve years from now I could be teaching her kid. Now the question is: who will be next?
