Last year, I had the bright idea of getting married on Cinco de Mayo; that’s the fifth of May for the uneducated. It was the culmination of a 20-year-long relationship that began in high school. It’s been almost a full year since us two crazy not-so-young-anymore kids tied the knot, and you know what’s happened in that year?
I’ve come to the realization that just about everyone on Earth has apparently chipped in on the cost of my uterus.
Not one single month has passed by that someone hasn’t asked me, “When are you guys having a baby?” As if I had somehow promised at the altar to spit out progeny as soon as a ring hit my finger and we hit the marriage bed. Apparently, there’s some part of the marriage contract that I must have looked over when I signed the dotted line. People want to know “why don’t you have kids already?” the moment your honeymoon is over.
I never knew that my body housed a communal uterus but, since I’m the only one who apparently didn’t know, let me tell you why it’s been so long in coming, this second appearance of our apparent Messiah who will spring forth from my unyielding womb.
Related: Delayed parenthood.
Putting off marriage and kids: it’s not the end of the world.
Admittedly, I’m a little long in the tooth for marriage. Everyone has been keen to make me feel like 37 is the new 47, so, thank you for that. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at the number of people (perfect strangers included) who have given us the third degree over this subject over and over again — always unsolicited.
I’ve sincerely thought that no one has ever wondered how I successfully made it to the ripe old age of 37 in my woefully childless state. I avoided teenage pregnancy, skirted pregnancy in my twenties, and successfully navigated my thirties in a childless manner without having, I don’t know, a fist full of birth control and an actual plan in place.
I always want to ask people what they’re thinking when they ask me, “Why don’t you have kids yet?”
I plaster on a fake smile, all while mentally cursing out the nosey bastard in front of me, and think: What if I can’t have kids? What if we’re suffering from infertility? What if, like countless other women and couples in their thirties we’ve tried and failed? What if we’re in the process of trying to have kids, but it just hasn’t worked yet?
What if, every single time you or anyone for that matter, decides to stink up the joint with your verbal diarrhea by asking me that same stupid ass question, or if you decide to point out how old I am, or if you refer to my dog as the only kid I’ll ever have, or say, out loud, that our lifestyle is just not cut out for kids, you are slowly twisting a very painful dagger over and over and over and over again at the center of deeply-rooted pain for us?
What if, with your innocent, well-meaning question, you make me want to strangle you every time your eyeballs move towards my stomach region? What if, you insensitive bastard, it’s none of your goddamn business?
The next time one of you asks me that question, I might just tell you to shut the hell up or I might just turn the tables and ask you why you and your lovely significant don’t try to pop out another one of your own clones that you clearly enjoy having since you’re so eager for me to join the club.
Oh yeah, and we don’t have kids because we don’t want any right now.
Thanks for asking.