I want to have time with my partner, travel with him, be wild and irresponsible, spend our money on ourselves. Then, once there is no chance that we would ever feel bitter about the sacrifices we’ve made for them, we’d have a kid or two. (No more than two. NEVER any more than two; I am not a Duggard.) But in terms of having healthy children and healthy pregnancies, that’s not exactly the best idea. I’m 31; I would have to start now. Like right now…but I’d rather not. I’d like to have a normal, leisurely romance before my DINKage. Time to enjoy living in sin. Time to enjoy being engaged. Time to relish the word “husband” and all of the team-y, partner-ness, “I will prioritize us” permanence it implies. In what may go down as the most useless rage possible, I am pissed at biology. I feel like I’ve just become who I wanted to be. How I could have successfully raised kids before age 30* is impossible to fathom. And yet they tell us that we’re supposed to pop a few out before 35 or face scary statistics. It seems like the sand in my babymaking hourglass is piling up and yet I would still rather see the new Woody Allen film, split a bottle of wine, and spend Sunday in bed with my man. Unfair doesn’t begin to cover it.
*Personal statement, meaning about me, personally. I’m not saying having kids before 30 won’t/doesn’t/hasn’t worked for others.