Women’s Studies October 29, 2008

   As I step a little more every day into this land of infertility, I come to realize that, as fearful as I am that I will never have a (biologically-related) child of my own, I am almost equally as fearful that I will.

   Baby fever struck me early, about the time I hit puberty.  It was like: get a training bra, start my period, start looking for a husband so I can have a baby.  In truth, there was never a time when I didn’t want children in my life.  My Barbies always had babies.  When we played house I was always the mom.  When we played school, I was the dowdy teacher with 4 kids of her own at home.  When we played royalty, I was always the queen, never the princess; the queen had more power and got to have babies!  It has always been a part of me and how I shape my life.  And considering I’ve felt this way most (all?) of my life, I think I’ve been pretty patient to have waited this long (not that I necessarily had a choice, I now realize).

   In college as I delved in to women’s studies courses, I started to feel guilty about my desire to be a mother.  After all, why would I want to be in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, when I could be out writing novels and traveling the world and falling in love with hundreds of beautiful foreign intelligent men (and women)?  But then it struck me, an epiphany like no other: the whole point of women’s studies was equality, and women (and men) being able to do whatever the hell they want, regardless.  It means having the freedom and opportunity to be a rodeo clown or the president or even (gasp!) a parent.  So now, I embrace the idea of being in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.  There is nothing else in the world I want more.  It is a strong, noble, brave, and honest life ambition.

   But (BUT!) the closer I get to being pregnant (ha!), the more my fear creeps up, a little about whether I’ll be a good mom, a little about how we’ll afford it (never mind the lay-off talks going on at my husband’s place of employment), but mostly but actually being pregnant.  The odds of me being a gigantic, miserably uncomfortable, unable-to-fit-in-my-car, gestationally diabetic, yet still unnervingly happy pregnant woman from, oh, about day 3, are pretty good.  The thought of my ligaments loosening and stretching in ungodly ways make me queasy, and I can’t even begin to fathom just how big my boobs will actually get.  Is there some website out there specializing in plus-size porn stars expecting babies?  Maybe that’s where I’ll be able to find a bra that will fit me.

   At the end, however, there’s always that sweet whisper of a real, live, take-home baby.  A whisper that I’m convinced is a promise and I will be let down if it never happens.  Bone-crushingly disappointed (and that’s an understatement).  But that whisper is enough to make all of it worthwhile, something I’m fortunate enough to know at least a little now, although from what I’ve been told, I’ll realize only later just how worth it everything will be.