I was pregnant. I was at a party at a family-friend’s house, and I had to tell my parents. I kept walking around, rubbing my belly, trying to make sure that it was real, it was happening. I told my Mother first. I took her into an empty room. Her eyes became teary, and full of disappointment. “Who is the father?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. Chris? No, we broke up nearly a year ago. Ryan? Shit, maybe. There was one other person I thought of, but now I can’t remember who. I could only picture myself as the next guest on the Jerry Springer show. “Are you my baby’s daddy?”
Telling my Father was even worse. He was quiet and expressionless as usual, and I wanted to sink into the floor and die because of it. Some of my friends showed up at the party, like Neal. I whispered the news into his ear, and he rubbed my stomach like a good luck charm.
Now, I’ve had some fucked up dreams. Dreams where gang members are killing off people I love, one by one, one where I am assassinated by samurais, a dead girl with broken legs is crawling after me, a leprechaun is trying to drown me in a hot tub. But I have never woken up from a dream feeling as horrendous as I did this morning.
I will apologize now to those of you who are A) pregnant and happy, or B) not pregnant but wanting to be. I can’t say I share in your sentiments. The idea of having a thing growing inside me, like a tumor, is absolutely repugnant. But I don’t shudder merely at the biological aspect of it (but I am 4’10.5”—being pregnant with this stature would be HELL. I’d be all whale-belly and a pair of stubby legs). I shudder at babies, toddlers, teenagers. Formula, snot bubbles, poopy diapers. Hell, ‘lactate’ is my least favorite word in the English language. I don’t think it’s mere coincidence. My goals and ambitions in life are anything but stable, or constant. Half of them require, no, more like dictate, that I leave this country. The life I want to lead is in no way fit for children.
Perhaps people think I’m rude, or that I over-react. But I think I’ve just thought about it more than the average person. I constantly analyze, and focus on the future, and the gravity of having such responsibility is more risk than I can cope with. Taking care of myself is enough, thanks. I believe any child deserves more than my introverted, impatient, and selfish self can provide.
My mom has a friend from work who is in her mid-40’s. She is happily married, and has never had children, nor does she plan on it. Perhaps she doesn’t find the whole process as…awful as I do. But I take some semblance of comfort, knowing that I’m not the only person in the world that doesn’t want to partake in the miracle of producing life. It makes me feel less…outrageous in my opinions.
I don’t know. People always tell me (usually in an obnoxious sing-song voice) that it’s just because I’m young. That I’ll change my mind, and get married and have children. But the older I get, the longer my list of dreams are, and all they require is a loving companion, paper upon which to write, and perhaps a very, very large boat. My answer to these people: don’t hold your breath.
