For the last 3 years my mother has called me on the 14th of June and said “Happy Birthday. You are old.” Inevitably it leads to a discussion to my lack of wealth, the smog in New York City…
and the fact that my ovaries are dying.
She has a point. Women in my family tend to go stale relatively early. And The Bestie loves to remind me that overachieving women of color have reproductive system biologically 7 years, on average, older than whites. Stick a knife in my uterus; it’s done.
I like babies. They are kinda cute and squishy. I also know that they require lots o’ cash, a flexible schedule, and a little thing called patience.
I want about 700 of them.
But they require the thing I’m most scared to acquire.
I know. I know. Technically, if I had to, I could do it myself. But I don’t want to. Every day I see brown young women carrying strollers covered in thin probably toxic plastic in 20 degree weather down 3 flights of steps.
I don’t want to be them. I don’t want to be the person who never makes $100,000 because she has to leave the office promptly at 4.
I don’t want to do it alone.
I would have to do it alone.
Because I don’t know if I am cut out for this, you know, relationship thing. I can be ok for a little while. I like the feeling at first, but when the rubber hits the road and I realize that it’s you I have to look at you for a while, I respond like a soaking rat in a sewer scratching its way to the surface, even if it drowns in the process.
And no one would leave a baby with a rat.