KiDs
My friend Frankie made a comment on a post I did earlier on Justin Bieber's rabid fans and where I said that if I had a daughter who was so out of her mind for some crazy little boy on tv I would start feeding her some sense right quick.
That got me to thinking about my feelings on children. Of my own.
There was an article in September's Marie Claire by this woman, Polly Vernon who set about explaining why she'd never have children. The expression I related to was: "They told me that...by my late 20s-early 30s at the latest- I would be yearning for a baby with every fiber of my being. (I have never yearned; I am now 38.)"
I am now 43 and (God have His mercy, how the clock ticks!) neither did I. I'd listen in wonder as friends would describe how they HAD to have kids, like right then. Like if they didn't, they'd wither and disappear into a sad pile of grey dust.
I was never bitten by that compulsion to procreate. Never felt those twinges in my stomach, faceless little beings tugging at my womb (wow, that sounds macabre, Euphs) sending me shrieking for sperm, any sperm.
Children always seemed like obstacles: to freedom of movement, travel, a slim stomach, career advancement, naps at will, the wind in my hair. To say nothing of the excruciating pain of pushing a bushel of watermelons out of one's teeny-tiny vaginal cavity.
Despite this, I did experience one caveat.
The only one who could, and did, make me concede is She Who Shall Remain Nameless. I loved that woman so definitively, with every atom of my soul, wanted her happiness so deeply, that I'd willingly bear the most Herculean of burdens. In fact, everything that previously believed destined for doom or a threat to my otherwise chic lifestyle began to suddenly, stunningly, glow. I began to see through her eyes: first her body filling with life, rendering her even more breathtaking. Then, our babies, a girl, then a boy. Now desired and craved not just for her, but for myself. I actually wanted a family. I discovered that I was not such a solitary gus after all, brought skipping out into the light by a girl who seemed embroidered in pure joy.
The plans began: numerous, meticulous, preemptively strategic from so far afar: from what we'd do about childcare, to how I'd buy a gun the minute my daughter turned 9, and bring it out and silently, ominously clean it in front of her future suitors. We fought over the names, (eventually agreeing on two lovely ones that held meaning for us both), whether we'd use organic diapers, worried about how to save for the kids' college tuition. I even bought a tiny cheong sam meant for a baby girl and in blunt defiance of orders, miniature black leggings, which SWSRN deemed too "grown" for a toddler.
Then, it was over. She was gone, and with it, my son and daughter, who, though unborn, were as real as anything for me.
All my loves in one swift clean shot.
And with it, the death of that desire. Because it only meant something with her. It was only supposed to happen with her.
The regrets are multitudinous, the self-recrimination forming and reforming under the unstinting microscope of second- by- second analysis. The pain: boy, is it sharp. And like a black cat, barely visible at times but then jumping out suddenly, claws outstretched, like a feral beast.
But... but missing out on this monumental love, this abandonment of self (without thought or safety net or pride or the most minute of hesitations) in devotion to another, well, I have to say, it was my greatest moment as a human being.
I'll let you go, now..
That got me to thinking about my feelings on children. Of my own.
There was an article in September's Marie Claire by this woman, Polly Vernon who set about explaining why she'd never have children. The expression I related to was: "They told me that...by my late 20s-early 30s at the latest- I would be yearning for a baby with every fiber of my being. (I have never yearned; I am now 38.)"
I am now 43 and (God have His mercy, how the clock ticks!) neither did I. I'd listen in wonder as friends would describe how they HAD to have kids, like right then. Like if they didn't, they'd wither and disappear into a sad pile of grey dust.
I was never bitten by that compulsion to procreate. Never felt those twinges in my stomach, faceless little beings tugging at my womb (wow, that sounds macabre, Euphs) sending me shrieking for sperm, any sperm.
Children always seemed like obstacles: to freedom of movement, travel, a slim stomach, career advancement, naps at will, the wind in my hair. To say nothing of the excruciating pain of pushing a bushel of watermelons out of one's teeny-tiny vaginal cavity.
Despite this, I did experience one caveat.
The only one who could, and did, make me concede is She Who Shall Remain Nameless. I loved that woman so definitively, with every atom of my soul, wanted her happiness so deeply, that I'd willingly bear the most Herculean of burdens. In fact, everything that previously believed destined for doom or a threat to my otherwise chic lifestyle began to suddenly, stunningly, glow. I began to see through her eyes: first her body filling with life, rendering her even more breathtaking. Then, our babies, a girl, then a boy. Now desired and craved not just for her, but for myself. I actually wanted a family. I discovered that I was not such a solitary gus after all, brought skipping out into the light by a girl who seemed embroidered in pure joy.
The plans began: numerous, meticulous, preemptively strategic from so far afar: from what we'd do about childcare, to how I'd buy a gun the minute my daughter turned 9, and bring it out and silently, ominously clean it in front of her future suitors. We fought over the names, (eventually agreeing on two lovely ones that held meaning for us both), whether we'd use organic diapers, worried about how to save for the kids' college tuition. I even bought a tiny cheong sam meant for a baby girl and in blunt defiance of orders, miniature black leggings, which SWSRN deemed too "grown" for a toddler.
Then, it was over. She was gone, and with it, my son and daughter, who, though unborn, were as real as anything for me.
All my loves in one swift clean shot.
And with it, the death of that desire. Because it only meant something with her. It was only supposed to happen with her.
The regrets are multitudinous, the self-recrimination forming and reforming under the unstinting microscope of second- by- second analysis. The pain: boy, is it sharp. And like a black cat, barely visible at times but then jumping out suddenly, claws outstretched, like a feral beast.
But... but missing out on this monumental love, this abandonment of self (without thought or safety net or pride or the most minute of hesitations) in devotion to another, well, I have to say, it was my greatest moment as a human being.
I'll let you go, now..
posted by euphoria at 8:27 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home