Archive for July 21st, 2010

Moving on

I’m moving on to my next post due to conflict brewing from my last one and my desire to be more conflict-free on today of all days when I want to be celebrating my unexpected state supreme court win!  I know, I know: why did I write when I knew there would be conflict?  Honestly, I don’t know.  I think I just wanted to express my thoughts and concerns and undecidedness when it comes to whether or not I will try to get preggers ever.  I think about it a lot and I wanted to write some thoughts down.  Unfortunately, I think I may have hurt folks’ feelings, which was truly the last thing I wanted.  I really just wanted to talk about how I think about things and wasn’t trying to convince anyone of any greater (or lesser, for that matter) truth.  Anyway, two blog posts in one day: unprecedented!

Last night Aaron & I saw the new movie Cyrus.  Oy.  Have you seen it?  What did you think?  Right before heading to the theater, Aaron said, “Is this movie going to be uncomfortable?  And, you know, not in a funny uncomfortable way?”  I said I didn’t know but he was the one that wanted to see it.  So, we get to Sundance and I think we’re running late so I instruct Aaron to get the popcorn and sent myself to get the tickets.  I hate getting the tickets at Sundance because they are just nasty little receipts.  And I HATE receipts of any kind.  But I carry the punchcards, so I wanted to get the tickets.  Ok, tickets in hand, but I can barely touch them so they are perched precariously between the tops of my middle and index finger.  I have to use the restroom so I head there.  I enter the stall and set the grody tickets down on the toilet paper contraption.  When done, I take the tickets, leave the stall and put them on the sink counter to wash my hands.  Well, the sink I use — unbeknownst to me — is right next to the automatic air dryer so when I put my hands into the sink, my arm moves into the air dryer automaton zone and the thing starts blowing hot air.  It’s very strong so it blows the tickets into the sink to my right.  Argh.  I finish up washing and go to the sink on the right to retrieve the tickets.  But when I do so, the automatic sink goes off and soaks the icky receipts with water.  So now I have supernast, grode-a-tron, icksville receipt tickets.  And then, on our way into the theater, there’s no usher so we didn’t need the stupid tickets in the first place.  Argh.

And then we saw the movie.  Aaron’s premonition was right: the movie was quite uncomfortable at times.  Jonah Hill’s character is weirdly attached to his mom, Marisa Tomei, and it makes for some very odd moments.  I laughed a bunch, and generally was interested in the movie, but I don’t think I’d recommend it.  I wouldn’t not recommend it, but I wouldn’t be able to say, “You should see it.”  The acting was great — special shout out to Bill C. Reilly for being just so generally great and to  Tomei for her total awesomeness (though what in the hell was with the eyelashes, eyeliner and hair?) — and the writing was good, but the awkwardness was, well, awkward and that’s not my favorite thing.  Plus, the ending was way too wrap-it-up-and-all’s-ok that it felt like it belonged to a different movie.

Two blog posts!  One day!

Babies

This is not a great article, but it made me want to blog today about something I think a lot about.

Lately it seems that I am going to a baby shower every other day.  Of course this is not actually true.  But I am at a stage in my life where I seem to always have at least one friend who is preggers.  Right now, I can name four friends who are with child.  I can also name several more who have produced babes in the last year or so.  I still have a lot friends who, like me, are childless, but those numbers are dropping quickly. 

Where am I going with this, you ask.  Well, I’ll tell you.  I like kids.  I like babies.  I like kids more, but babies are fun.  I think I’m pretty good with kids.  I think I’m pretty funny and a decent person to have around your kid.  Yet, I still don’t know — and I’m 35 — whether or not I want one of my own.  Most women I know seem to be pretty clear on the answer to that question, but I am not.  Of course, at some point — and maybe that point is now — I won’t be able to have one, whether I want to or not.  I don’t know if I want to be pregnant.  I don’t know if I want to adopt.  I don’t know if I want another person living in my house. 

I think I have some of the biological desire for kids, but my head gets really caught up in the question.  Frankly, and I know this is going to be shocking, I see having a kid as a really selfish thing.  Not a bad thing, but a very self-centered thing (adoption aside, really).  I see it as saying, hey world, there should be more of me.  And hey world, support my offspring.

I do not condemn anyone for choosing to reproduce.  Obviously I don’t. Quite the contrary.  Like I said, I love kids.  I love my friends’ kids, I love my relatives’ kids.  I like babysitting and being around kids.  I just don’t know about one of my own.  I worry.

I worry about the environmental impact of bringing another person into this too crowded world.  I worry about the economic impact on me and the kid (I read recently that the average American child costs his/her parents $285k or something before you figure in the cost of college).  I worry that the kid would be unhealthy.  I worry that the kid would be too much like me.  I worry that I would mess the kid up in all sorts of stupid ways.  I worry that I would never get a decent amount of sleep again. 

I worry most of all that the kid would be unhappy.  The world is such a tough place.  And while I would hope I would do my best to smother the kid with love and support and patience and compassion and education and laughter and all things good and decent, I worry that the world would come between us.  I worry that I couldn’t stand seeing the heartbreak or the depression or the inevitable tears.  I worry I would pass along all of my neuroses and insecurities and produce an unhappy soul.

I just worry.  So, for now, I don’t know if I’ll remain childless forever like the women in the Slate article (though I note the oldest was, what? 32? I’m not sure those women can count as choosing-to-be-childless-for-life) or whether I’ll try to join the club of reproducers. 


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