Found this dialogue between Yossarian and a shrink in Catch-22. Because I’m quite an ass myself, I replaced the word “fish” with “baby” in my head as I re-read it.
“What does the fish remind you of?”
“Other fish.”
“And what do the other fish remind you of?”
“Other fish.”
….
“Do you like the fish? Do you have any hostile or aggressive emotions toward it?”
“No, not at all. In fact, I rather like the fish.”
“Then you do like the fish.”
I’ve been thoroughly enjoying the quality essays in this book, a book that wasn’t around when I started this blog. These writers have become my imaginary best friends, my older sisters and mentors, individually and collectively soothing my frayed nerves– “It’s okay, we didn’t have kids, and we turned out alright.”
My new BFF Courtney Hodell introduced me to a new word, “allomothering.” Observed throughout the animal kingdom, it describes parental care given by a non-genetic mother. Sounds familiar–like that aunt who researched and offered to pay for a tutor after a parent-teacher conference she wasn’t even at, the aunt who is reading sex ed books for tweens with a glass of wine in hand to pre-screen them for content, the aunt who is routinely texting her niece’s mother to make sure her Halloween costume is completed in time… yeah, that hag with maternal sensibilities and no umbilical cord.
Hey kiddo, when you grow up and turn out alright, maybe you’ll remember me.
Spent the past few days hanging out with a very old and dear friend. She’s on maternity leave with number two and stranded at home and bored out of her mind. I didn’t bother with a hotel–just stayed with her and experienced this whole baby business up close, driving back and forth from daycare, watching her nurse every three hours, smelled for stinky diapers and played with the older one.
I was hoping I’d either be magically inspired or totally turned off. Neither happened. There was a part of me that found it very natural, and there was a part of me thinking how drastically different of a lifestyle it was. There was no hormonal gush in my uterus or maternal certainty that this was what I wanted.
“You’re really good with kids. You’ll be a great mom,” she observed.
The friend has a bunch of letters after her name having spent most of her adult life in higher education and specializes in child psychiatry.
I’m a board certified mom with no mommy yearnings.
I’ve already lost this battle so I don’t even know why I would even bother, but a girl’s gotta vent. I’m very active in community service—and by that, I don’t mean raking leaves at a park to meet guys or attending fundraisers sipping up on bubblies and noshing on canapes. I get down and dirty and do the work—enough so that social workers ask me why I don’t join their profession. (I don’t because I can see how you can burn out very easily.) I’m not saying it’s god’s work, but, the general perception seems to be, “how nice,” “she can afford to do it because she doesn’t have kids,” “it gives her something to do.” I never did any of it for recognition or self-validation and I’m not about to ask for it now, but come on, why the inferior treatment just because the love, care and guidance I’m giving is not to someone labeled my child?
“I find myself increasingly critical of other people’s parenting. I think it’s a good thing I don’t have kids. I think I might be overly hands-on,” I confess to a fellow sans*.
Summer’s over, school’s back on, and I had a number of incidents where I had been perplexed: the decision of a friend who barely arranged for playdates to enroll her rather nocturnal daughter in a full-time pre-K program with no adjustment period; or my colleague’s comment that a full day of school was already excessive and kids didn’t need homework.
“Maybe the fact that you’re critical is you subconsciously wanting kids?” she suggested.
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Maybe.”
Summer doldrums–a good time to catch up with people, professionally and socially. A guy I meet once a year or so cancelled our networking coffee. “Let’s do after Labor Day. Taking my family on vacation next week.” Family?! Woah, Nelly. This is the same guy who thought getting bottled service at a bar was cool. That was not that long ago.
Surrounded by friends moving, sending kids to school, having more babies–all that’s considered onward and upward–I wonder, are doldrums only for the summer? Or for me, forever?
An interesting set of circumstances led me to the heart of an elite mixed martial arts competition. A friend’s brother was competing, and we were given comp seats and backstage access where post-match athletes limped and watched replays of their fights on their phones through one good eye. Those yet to compete donned their hooded jackets and stormed towards the stadium, flanked by his trainers, thirsting to win. They were from all over the world–Brazil, Russia, Ireland, Nigeria–the best athletes combining strength, agility and endurance, fighting like men always have–with their bare hands.
I was introduced to my friend’s brother’s coaches–the grappling coach, the Muay Thai coach, the jiu jiutsu coach–he’d have one more if he could budget one, I was told. They walked around shirtless and I took in the beauty of their physique. Tatestosterone. It was everywhere. Man fumes. Something inside me stirred. Namely my ovaries. They were waking up from a long nap. What is this smell?? DNA! Superior genetic material to procreate with. Super-athletes. Men. Men. Real men. I was so happy. I could not remember when I lusted so hard. My shriveled up ovaries were soaking up the man essence like a sponge. They got a new lease on life. Two years, possibly. Who needs FSH injections?! This is what they needed. Follicules–man molecules that stimulate ovulation.
I sense a business opportunity in a man-odor vape bar adjacent to a fertility clinic.
Took a yoga class at a different location and ended up with a talker of an instructor.
“…and I was thinking, ‘how to bring that concept into our lives, into our practice, right here onto your mats.’ Ask for what you want for. Ask your body to move for you. Ask the universe and the universe will provide.”
“Yoga’s not magic. You’re magic.”
“There’s no need to rush to the next pose. There is no hurry. Time never runs out. That’s a concept humans came up with.”
“Ask your body what you want it to do. Ask the universe what you want.”
Well, how about:
There is no hurry; time never runs out. My ovaries will keep ovulating like I’m 22. The universe will provide me with a viable life partner and baby father. Magic.
It starts at the onset of pubescence. The cat-calling, the whistling, the anything-to-get-a-rise low-level harassment guised as flattery. The shit everyone put up with, until the millennials came around rightfully pointed out that it’s a form of sexual harassment.
The worst are the ones that turn belligerent after you pay no attention to them. “What? Can’t take a compliment?” “I said you’re beautiful but your personality is clearly not.” “A smile would be nice!” Or simply, “Bitch.”
Luckily, I no longer get these cat calls on a regular basis–maybe because I now carry an air of untouchable confidence that comes with age. And I’m visibly old. I did, however, experiene a rather unique one the other day.
A car was waiting for a red light as I walked by it.
Whistling.
Hooting.
“Where you going sexy?!”
“Hey lady, turn around! Show us your beautiful face!”
“Hey lady!”
I kept walking away from the car but still was within earshot when I heard:
“That’s why you have no kids.”
And vrooom off they went.
Caught up with Ronin, the legend of the bachelors. With his charming wit, power career in medicine and motorcycle as his choice of transport, he’s the most eligible and most emotionally unavailable man on this isle. Since we last spoke in any depth several years ago, he had notably mellowed out, but his resistance to settling down had not changed.
That said, he was no longer on five different dating apps filling up his free evenings with the newest batch of beauties he would bed once.
“I’m over the conquesting women thing,” he explained.
“What happened?!” I mean, it couldn’t be. This was Ronin, whose name google associated with “dating” after “MD.” The man who had perfected the one-two step of charm/sleep and its post-coital counterpart, respond/delete. (Once you slept with someone, you were forever obligated to respond to their communication, explained the man also famous for his zero email inbox.) I’ve always used Ronin as an example of why online dating (evil!) perpetuated damaging behavior for those with emotional issues by enabling them with an endless supply of new dates.
And now, he’s laying low for a few years. Taking cover from the storm. Counting down the days until he can once again, reclaim his indisputable status as Don Juan. Despite his pathologies, Ronin surprisingly has a few redeeming traits, and as it pertains to dating, he dates people his own age–and this, it turns out, is the eye of the hurricane. Women his age are sprinting to the finish line with their last two good eggs, and he wants no part of artificial “accidents.”
“I’m a 6’2″ Jewish doctor in Manhattan,” he noted dryly, taking a swig of whiskey. “Right now, I’m only sleeping with women who are menopausal or have IUDs.”
Oy vey.
So this is where the last of the straight men have disappeared to. There’s a reason I have trouble meeting straight single men my own age. Figuring out if I want kids or not is hard enough. Now I know sperm donors will emerge only after it’s official I can’t.
unbabyme 