Babies: on Board?
Nov. 6th, 2008 05:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldMy dear friend ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aphoenixfalls wrote in her journal last night, rhapsodizing on the bittersweet perfume of old pajamas [emphasis added]:
I now sleep alone.
I cook for one.
I am no one's wife, and am farther from becoming a mother than I ever thought I would be at 31.
I haven't used the sewing machine in ages.
It's a completely different life than I had pictured for myself the last time I smelled this scent. But this life is currently lived for me, more than I ever did in my entire existence beforehand.
No regrets. Only reminiscence of my former life.
There is something both encouraging and heartbreaking about her confession. My bright and fiesty young friend is taking active ownership of her life, and I remain certain that she would and will be a quite spectacular mother someday.
But there is a resonant sadness to that phrase, "[I] am farther from becoming a mother than I ever thought I would be at 31." At nearly 32 years old myself, I feel the silent pressure of parenthood closing in on me; I can only imagine a woman in her 30s thinking that her biological clock sounds like a ticking time bomb.
The pressure of parenthood is not only relentless, it is pervasive. Babies are everywhere, occupying what was once my friends' spare rooms and latching on to once-pristine celebrity bosoms. It seems like I can't walk ten feet in any direction these days without bumping into a baby stroller. Between the modern entertainment media and all this incessant breeding, I have to wonder if my life isn't just a subplot in one giant porno movie.
I want to stress that no one anywhere at any time has brought their influence to bear on my reproductive choice. I speak only of the prevailing cultural imperatives to Do Something Important. Leave a Legacy. Carry On the Family Name. Embody and Nurture a Love Shared by Two People. Claim a Dependent Tax Deduction.
Those are all perfectly valid reasons, but ignore the most outwardly appealing quality of children: sheer, uncompromising cuteness. I am a selectively sentimental guy, but even I cannot help but smile when I see a little boy in a halloween costume, or a little girl holding her father's hand as she crosses the street, or a little league baseball game.
But I say this acknowledging that I have never changed a diaper, avoid G-rated movies and get easily frustrated by people who communicate in fractured conversational English, much less infantile pidgin utterances.
The truth is, small children scare me. I am intimidated by their fragility and impressionability, and fearful that the slightest word or nudge will somehow cause irreparable long-term damage. Most children, for their part -- perhaps instinctually sensing my discomfort -- regard me with the kind of attitude usually reserved for Jehovah's Witnesses.
But what scares me even more about the prospect of child-rearing is The Big Picture. Basically, the planet is pretty %*@&ed up right now. I worry about Enchanted Pants Jr. suffering through an overpopulated, undernourished, apocalyptic existence -- like Waterworld, but without the cigarettes.
Living ain't easy in 2008. I'm petrified of bringing a child into this country -- how the hell, why the hell would people do it in Damascus? Caracas? Ho Chih Minh City? Perhaps it is simply a product of having sex for warmth.
This week's election result gives me not only hope for the future, but a renewed sense of trust in our society. Enough to raise a child or a few? I don't know. The rumbling storm is still a few miles away, and I'm keeping my raincoat on.
aphoenixfalls wrote in her journal last night, rhapsodizing on the bittersweet perfume of old pajamas [emphasis added]:I now sleep alone.
I cook for one.
I am no one's wife, and am farther from becoming a mother than I ever thought I would be at 31.
I haven't used the sewing machine in ages.
It's a completely different life than I had pictured for myself the last time I smelled this scent. But this life is currently lived for me, more than I ever did in my entire existence beforehand.
No regrets. Only reminiscence of my former life.
There is something both encouraging and heartbreaking about her confession. My bright and fiesty young friend is taking active ownership of her life, and I remain certain that she would and will be a quite spectacular mother someday.
But there is a resonant sadness to that phrase, "[I] am farther from becoming a mother than I ever thought I would be at 31." At nearly 32 years old myself, I feel the silent pressure of parenthood closing in on me; I can only imagine a woman in her 30s thinking that her biological clock sounds like a ticking time bomb.
The pressure of parenthood is not only relentless, it is pervasive. Babies are everywhere, occupying what was once my friends' spare rooms and latching on to once-pristine celebrity bosoms. It seems like I can't walk ten feet in any direction these days without bumping into a baby stroller. Between the modern entertainment media and all this incessant breeding, I have to wonder if my life isn't just a subplot in one giant porno movie.
I want to stress that no one anywhere at any time has brought their influence to bear on my reproductive choice. I speak only of the prevailing cultural imperatives to Do Something Important. Leave a Legacy. Carry On the Family Name. Embody and Nurture a Love Shared by Two People. Claim a Dependent Tax Deduction.
Those are all perfectly valid reasons, but ignore the most outwardly appealing quality of children: sheer, uncompromising cuteness. I am a selectively sentimental guy, but even I cannot help but smile when I see a little boy in a halloween costume, or a little girl holding her father's hand as she crosses the street, or a little league baseball game.
But I say this acknowledging that I have never changed a diaper, avoid G-rated movies and get easily frustrated by people who communicate in fractured conversational English, much less infantile pidgin utterances.
The truth is, small children scare me. I am intimidated by their fragility and impressionability, and fearful that the slightest word or nudge will somehow cause irreparable long-term damage. Most children, for their part -- perhaps instinctually sensing my discomfort -- regard me with the kind of attitude usually reserved for Jehovah's Witnesses.
But what scares me even more about the prospect of child-rearing is The Big Picture. Basically, the planet is pretty %*@&ed up right now. I worry about Enchanted Pants Jr. suffering through an overpopulated, undernourished, apocalyptic existence -- like Waterworld, but without the cigarettes.
Living ain't easy in 2008. I'm petrified of bringing a child into this country -- how the hell, why the hell would people do it in Damascus? Caracas? Ho Chih Minh City? Perhaps it is simply a product of having sex for warmth.
This week's election result gives me not only hope for the future, but a renewed sense of trust in our society. Enough to raise a child or a few? I don't know. The rumbling storm is still a few miles away, and I'm keeping my raincoat on.
