I don't know why, but I've launched back into baby-crazy mode again. This happened when I was just about to turn 30 and then went away for a good year and a half after DH confessed that he may never WANT children. This upset me at first. I had to really ask myself whether or not this was a deal-breaker and decided that I'd rather be DH's wife than lose my identity as somebody's mother. My decision. I decided that I may not be the most stable candidate for motherhood–physically (because of my chronic back problem(s)<==plural) or emotionally (because my own mother STILL sucks at being a mom).
I still worry that I won't want to bother with kid stuff. I worry that I won't love my hypothetical child enough. I worry that I'll grow bored watching Elmo and Dora, that I'll always be too busy to bother with it all. I worry that my writing will suffer and I won't be able to drink when I feel like it–and I feel like it OFTEN. I like a stiff one at least every couple of days and a rum dipped cigar on the weekends. I don't care what anyone thinks of that, so stuff it, critical America.
I also worry that DH and I will regret not having a little person to carry on our names. We'll be old and boring and STILL not have anyone to care about us when we're too infirm to do the stuff we do now. We'll go to our graves STILL talking about stuff we're not doing anyway–this freedom we strive to hold on to so we can DO things–except we're not. I don't blame him for that. We do what we can to make ends meet. He busts his hump to provide and I can't ask for more.
When DH told me (out of the blue, after 5 years of dating) he didn't know if he'd ever want kids, I told him I could deal with that as long as we were taking advantage of our freedom. If we were traveling and having adventures together, I didn't mind just being the two of us, but if we were spending the majority of our lives at home, I wanted something to show for it.
Lately, I've been pretty vocal about my desire to eventually procreate—I asked him to think about a baby in 2 years. He seems to really be considering it. I know myself though. I said two years because *I * may not want it after all. I'm up and down about EVER being pregnant. I may be one of the few women on earth who thinks pregnancy is utterly GROSS. Babies are awesome when they're OUT–pregnancy is FUCKING FREAKISH. The whole concept is scary to me, like demon posession or pod people–the crazy, random puking and weird pooping and hemroids and huge nipples and don't even get me started on the turkey timer belly buttons~~~blehhhh!!!—And yet I'm obsessed with it lately. WTF?!?!?!?
Maybe this will pass again. Maybe not. All pregnancy squeamishness aside, I think I'm waffling because I'm afraid I'll hate being a mother, like my own mother seemed to. I tend to tire of other people's kids when I'm in a mood. I can't do that to a little person. I won't do that. Ever. So…maybe I've answered my own question. Probably not.
Things are never quite that simple.