The Whole Kids Thing

I originally wrote this in September of 2006. Since then, my husband has entered grad school, and we decided to delay adding to the family. For the whole story, read the sidebar at the top right of my blog.

For the first 4 1/2 years of our marriage, Ryan and I did not want kids. We did not want kids so terribly badly. In the grocery store or at Target, while Ryan and I perused aisles of neatly contemporary place settings, a child’s shrill cry would reach our ears, and we’d simultaneously count our many blessings that we were not in the same situation. Even when our friends Mark and Heather had kids, we held fast. Yes, we loved their kids. But being responsible for somebody's life while trying to earn money? Wiping up applesauce and watching Sesame Street? Not for us.

Nothing could put the fear of God in me like the sight of a flock of children running amok on a soccer field. Buying a bumper-stickered minivan, sipping soup-on-the-go and cheering on my child while chatting-it-up with Land's-End-model parents is not my idea of fun. It is my idea of hell. If my friends asked what my little boy/girl was up to lately, I'd have to make up some story about a little-league rock band. Torture would be involved before I'd reveal the way I spent my soccer-filled Tuesday evenings.

But. Something happened.

I turned 27. As we all know, 27 is gettin' close to 30. And somewhere, in the subconscious of my anti-child brain, I must have set an alarm for the age of 30. Thirty was my personal drop-dead date for pregnancy. It's the age at which it is still reasonable to think I could have "energy" for raising a kid in the years to come, and the age at which I imagine my body is reaching its peak for baby-carrying.

I blame this mentality on my mother. Though my wonderful mother in no way pressures me in any area of my life, I found that I compared my life to hers. She birthed her first child at the age of nineteen and was already mother to eight- and five-year-old daughters by the time she was my age. Nevermind that it was the seventies and my mom didn’t go to college and nearly every detail of every circumstance is completely different between her life then and my life now; time was running out! Motherhood, a wailing siren, had begun to woo me to its charms.

Because I knew lots of women who had troubled pregnancies, I didn't want to find myself a ripe old 40 and pregnant for the first time. No, 30 (maybe 33) was it. When my kid was 18 I'd be around 50 and retirement would be on the horizon. Lord knows I don't want my golden years spent diapering anyone other than myself.

So, my newly unsure-about-kids brain took over and started whispering to me. “You'll be thirty soon. Ryan will be IN his thirties soon. Yeah, you had a good run of kid-less years, but maybe it's time to give it a thought. And you'd look great in a mock-turtleneck!” Well, my brain was partly lying. I'd look horrible in a mock-turtleneck.

Still, Ryan and I had made one step towards child-bearing without even realizing it. We bought a house. In the past I'd worried that I'd become pregnant and we'd be stuck trying to make life work in an apartment with a newborn. I also knew it'd be a heck of a lot easier to save some money for a house without the kid-factor. And there it was, right across from the park where children play, boasting a half-acre yard and in a family neighborhood. Had we chosen a family-friendly house on purpose? Well, yeah. We were even a bit relieved to hear our house was in the right area for the best elementary school. Relieved!

It was summer, and because Ryan and I were skipping a vacation, I longed to hit the road. I had strong memories of the camping trips and adventurous vacations my family took together once or even twice a year. I found myself imagining Ryan and I packing up our suitcases and our (cough) little girls (cough) and driving relentlessly, the way my family would do it, to see the wonders of nature. I'd teach my kids about camping and creeking. We'd spot wild elk or even bears. We'd have family photo albums filled with snapshots of us all, standing at the base of a waterfall, a rainbow appearing above our heads.

And then, something strange happened. Ryan asked me if I'd thought about kids at all lately. And I said yes, a little. And he said he had, a little, too.

So now, it looks as though by the time I actually hit 30 we might have a one-year-old or even a two-year-old on our hands. Wow, is that scary. Sometimes I do feel as though it's way TOO scary and what if I'm a horrible mother and what if one of those tragic stories perpetually breaking on the news happens to one of our kids and what if my expectations are so crushed that it breaks my heart?

It is looking like we will probably find out.