I decided pretty early on that I never wanted children. When my boyfriend asked me to marry him, I reminded him again that I didn’t want children. Sincerely. I wasn’t going to change my mind, I told him. Would he regret marrying me in 10 years? He promised he wouldn’t–he would rather be married to me and childless than married to anyone else and a father.
We were both pretty stupid. But, hey, we were 23! So we became Mr. and Mrs. A.
Mr. A’s father had a heart attack. Mr. A became depressed. “What if my father never meets his grandchildren?” Mr. A. said. Over and over. It didn’t seem like a good time to remind him that unless Mr. A’s sister stepped up, that wasn’t going to happen anyway. Luckily, father-in-law pulled through. But Mr. A didn’t really recover from the scare.
I went to law school. “We could have a baby while you are still in school, before you start your career,” Mr. A suggested. I started to sweat. I was scared. I didn’t want to be a mom.
I tried to explain this to Mr. A–that I wanted a career, I wanted to save the world, I wanted to travel, I wanted to get pedicures. I had a deep fear that I would wake up at 40, wearing pastels that only make me look fatter and sporting a mom haircut, with nothing on my daily agenda except PTA and dance recitals. That, even though I would love my children, I would hate my life.
Yet here I sit, early 30s, my two-year-old daughter Miss L napping while I start a mommy blog. My hair? Long and layered, the envy of my girlfriends. My career? Saving the world (or at least the trees!). My feet? Pedicured–a nice bright pink, perfect for summer.