Three years ago, I wrote a post about having children. I was trying to decide whether I wanted one. I wish I could say that writing that post helped clear the fog of indecision, but that isn’t what happened. I continued to struggle and debate. And when that didn’t lead to a clear answer, I began to drunkenly poll people at parties. “Do you think I should have a kid?” I’d demand, taking a swig of my gin and tonic.
One moment I’d be swept up in the nostalgia of my own childhood. I’d imagine the pleasure of taking my daughter camping in the same hills where I camped as a kid. I’d show her how to roast the perfect marshmallow, how to light a fire, and how to pull off leeches. And the next moment I’d be sure I couldn’t manage motherhood. My hips were clearly built for bearing children, but my personality isn’t suited to raising them. I’m impatient and selfish and foul-mouthed.
A year and a half ago, my husband and I moved out of our cramped Brooklyn apartment. We bought a house in the Midwest, close to family. We adopted a puppy. We planted a garden. All signs pointed toward procreation. Yet I still couldn’t fully commit to the idea. So in December, when a pregnancy test delivered a single blue horizontal dash, I was relieved. But seconds later a perpendicular line appeared, transforming negative into positive, absence into presence. I stared at the plus sign dumbfounded. And then I began to cry. Continue reading
