Invasion of the Baby Bumps!

......little...........HAT!

            It’s come to that time in my life. A week hasn’t gone by without my Facebook announcing an engagement, marriage, or pregnancy on my friends list. Three of my cousins are pregnant at once, all due in the same month (apparently I missed the memo!), one of my coworkers announced her pregnancy this week, and I just now as I started writing this blog post discovered that one of my childhood friends is expecting. Shots of bulging tummies and grinning babies littler my newsfeed, my friends on Pinterest are creating new boards like Bundle of Joy and For When the Baby Comes!.

           

            I have to admit, even though I and many of my friends are of chronological child-rearing age, it feels so freaking weird. It’s weird to see a friend whose most typical status a year ago was “Kegger at my place tonight! Getting CRUNK, bitches!” now posts “Bella’s first diaper change. Green poopy!” It’s weird to see a guy’s typical picture change from him rolling a joint to cradling a baby in his arms.* It’s weird to see people I know create other people. I know that this has all been happening for our entire existence, but seeing the abruptness of parenthood unfold on Facebook is both fascinating and disconcerting.

           

            Seeing my peers great with child has gotten me thinking about where I am in life. I’ve always, always wanted a family. There was never any question that I’d be a mother. In high school, I had wanted to start having kids when my parents did; around 22. My parents often talk about how happy they are that they had my brother and me when they were young(ish) rather than waiting like many people do. That’s always resonated with me. But as I take a look at my life…at 25, I moved out of my college town less than six months ago, am paying rent and bills unaided by loans for the first time, working an (awesome but) entry level job, living with my boyfriend of nine months, and struggling to be able to take care of two cats and a beautiful two-year-old…naked rat dog.

           

            Now, don’t get me wrong, when my depression isn’t rearing its obnoxious head, I am very happy with my life. I might not be used to dedicating so much of my time to work, but having a full-time job fresh out of the dorm in this economy is a freaking miracle. I’m part of a dance troupe for the first time in years (and it’s tribal fusion, hell yes!), and making semi-regular progress in a writing project I’ve actually stuck with for once. I have an amazing boyfriend who can handle my immature breakdowns and my crazy Sicilian temper. My naked rat dog is fucking awesome. I’m adjusting to a lot of new stuff, but life is good. It’s just not baby-ready yet.

Even though I’m in a good situation, my current position in life gives me a little anxiety. I know it’s a big thing with our generation, but I’m not very keen on the idea of having kids at and after 30. Just thinking about it…I’d be almost 50 when they’re out of the house. 50! Ugh! I mean, I know that isn’t terribly old nowadays, but it would really suck to be nearly 50 by the time I have an empty nest. And if my kids wait as long as we do to get married and settle down (or longer, as seems to be the trend), I won’t be seeing any grandkids for a long time. I know it’s probably not as big a deal as I make it out to be, but I’d rather be younger when I become the matriarch of a family.

Unfortunately, if I were to do that, I’d have to have a baby, oh, I don’t know…as I’m writing this. And the fact that I’m surrounded by babies at work (we have a fantastic kids department) isn’t helping my situation. Dude, guys, I love babies. Love them. My ovaries ache every time one of those adorable monsters smiles at me, which happens a lot, oddly enough. A kid throwing a tantrum and a baby screaming in public has never really bothered me like it seems to other people. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure 6 months into motherhood I’m going to want to drop my colicky futurebaby off the roof just like all new moms do (admit it), but my baby fever has been burning for months now. I know that when I have a baby in my arms, I’ll feel like a missing piece of my life has fallen into place.

Baby fever and invasion of the baby bumps aside, I know full well I’m not ready to start my future family of four mama’s boys (seriously, I will have no idea what to do if I have a girl. Oh, God, what if she’s, like, a girl**? Agh! Okay, breathe…).  I may have spent my life so far as “Mama” to a great deal of my friends, but I know what happens when you have a baby. Your life as you know it is over. You live for that baby. And as amazing as that sounds, there’s no way I’m ready for it yet. I’m too…self-centered, to use the term more literally, at the moment.

Ladies and gentlemen, the aesthetic paragraph break.

I’ve just started dancing again, after a very long hiatus. Very long. I’ve been out of regular practice for years. It’s killed me. In a week, I have my first performance since 2010. Or 2009, Jesus Christ, the end of 2009, if I’m talking a true performance. Holy balls. Anyway, I’ve just started to get that part of me back. I’ve picked out a new dance name (I don’t want to make it public until I perform, yes, I’m superstitious that way, bite me), and I’m developing a new style and hopefully a name for myself in a new city. And I really want to go balls to the wall with dance this time. I really want to give it my all; constantly practice, perfect, promote, perform. If I got pregnant, well, that’s a very large wrench in my dance plans, especially with what your body goes through with a little sea monkey fetus swimming around in there.

                                     

Also terrified of my tattoos stretching into blobs!
This pic actually makes me worry less about that.

The same goes for my writing. I’ve been writing with more regularity than I have in a very, very long time. I’m all in on a single project, rather than pussyfooting around multiple ideas and eventually abandoning them. Demetrius and Chloe truly has my heart, and I do not want to orphan these characters. They really speak to me, and to not finish their story would be a huge regret in my life. I have a feeling that once I have an infant, I will be hyper focused on said infant, and my writing will fall by the wayside, at least until the honeymoon phase has worn off and I’m up at 5am, unable to fall asleep after the baby woke me up for the eighth time, killing time by zombie typing insomnia-fueled tales that will make no sense to me when I read them the next day after actually having had some sleep.

…why do people have babies again?

Oh, right, miraculous, life-changing, tiny chubby toes. Got it.

Anyway, I’m also not sure I’m ready for someone to call me ‘mom’ yet, either. I know it’s a huge stereotype, but a big part of me still associates the word Mom with mini vans, play dates and excessive vacuuming. I know this isn’t accurate—in fact, most of the moms I know are pretty awesome and able to keep up some semblance of a life independent of their offspring—but it’s still a weird association. I have yet to successfully take care of myself. I have always been a strange combination of an Old Soul and a Lost Boy (Neverland, not California vampire, and more gender generic, obviously). For instance, I’ve been a Mama Caretaker to many friends since jr. high, and yet my kneejerk reaction to my peers getting pregnant is ‘But they’re so young!’ They’re not young. They’re in their 20s and 30s. They, and I, are just the right age to be starting a family. But I still feel largely like a kid just starting to figure stuff out.

So in conclusion…I have no idea what’s going to happen. In light of the writing/dancing stuff, I’ve sworn a pact with myself to not actively attempt baby making for 2-3 years. That’ll put me damn close to the 30-year mark, but I think if I have a baby in less time, I won’t feel like I had enough time to pursue my passions uninhibited. But honestly, if I get pregnant before that mark by accident, I know I won’t be utterly devastated.

Now if you’ll excuse me…I’m going to take all of my birth control pills at once.

Question for my friends out there who are parents: Did you wait until you had a house/were financially stable/had a career to have a baby, or did your baby come unexpectedly or did you just dive into it? Would you have done it differently?

*I am aware that many people continue to throw keggers and smoke pot after becoming a parent. Still, the shift in focus on Facebook is dramatic.

**For my feminist friends: I love you, but blow it out your asses. I am absolutely relying on old gender-based stereotypical titles like ‘girly girl’ and ‘tomboy’. As a child, I could have been classified as a tomboy, or at the very least, I lived outside female gender barriers. I wasn’t a golden child by the furthest stretch of the imagination, but if I have a ‘girly girl’, a Jackie from That 70s Show, for example, I will have very little in common with her and I will freak the hell out. I mean, I’m sure I’ll love her, being my child and all, but…ugh, please, I just want boys.