There is a topic that I’ve been struggling to write about, and although I’ve alluded to it in this very blog before, I’ve been avoiding it like the plague.  Much like I’ve been avoiding it in real life. However, it only seems natural that I would write about it, as it fits into the Forty Tales theme quite well.  So, with that said…

Let’s talk babies.

Ugh.  I don’t even know where to begin.  Babies…they’re everywhere!  As much as I try to escape them, as this subject matter has haunted me for years, I just can’t.  It seems everyone I know is pregnant.  And everyone I don’t know…also pregnant.

And everyone else has either been pregnant or will be soon.

Let me get this out of the way now so there is no confusion as this entry continues.  I am very happy for all my expecting family and friends…and there are many of you.  Sincerely, I wish you nothing but the best and send love and good wishes of health and happiness for a lifetime to come.  Truly, I do.

With that said, I just can’t look at you.

I know that’s harsh, and it has absolutely nothing to with you.  It’s me.  All me.  Acknowledging you reminds me that I have achieved what is considered the ultimate failure.  I am not a mother.  And to some, I have no place in this world.

Motherhood: The Supreme Cult

If you don’t belong, you are an outsider.  And they let you know it.  Not so much deliberately, yet…quite possibly.

I am constantly taken aback by some of the things people either say to me, or around me.  I’ve lost count of how many times I have been asked, “Did you just never want children?”  Or been told, “You’re not a mother, you don’t understand.”  I try not to be overly sensitive, but, come on, if you’ve met me, you know I am.  These hurtful words never used to bother me so much, but then, well, you know what happened…

I turned forty.

My expiration date had passed.  My eggs had rotted.  My womb had turned into a vacated K-Mart.  My vagina had been boarded up like a hazardous waste zone.  I was old news.

Keyword: OLD.

The weird thing is, I don’t think the clock going off when I turned forty was necessarily biological.  I wasn’t in a panic that I hadn’t had a baby at that point.  I was in a panic because I was supposed to have a baby at that point.  I was supposed to be married too.  All these things I was supposed to do hadn’t happened for me, and as forty came and went, I started to realize, I was done.

Game Over.

I was listening to the radio the other day and the deejay said the only purpose in life was to have and raise children.  According to her, that was everything – there was no other reason to exist.

If that is the case, I guess there’s really no reason for me to stick around.

This morning personality only confirmed what I have believed all along – there is a prejudice against women who have not had children, and we non-mommies are shamed just as much as real mommies, only not over parenting styles, but lifestyles.

Apparently, because I don’t have kids, my life is not as hard.  I don’t have the same struggles as parents, (which is 100% true), but that doesn’t mean I don’t struggle.

I’m not as busy as parents are.  I’m not as stressed as parents are.  Let’s face it, I’m just not as important.  At least, that is how I am made to feel.

And how does it feel to not be a part of a parental unit?  Quite frankly, it feels crappy.  If this were a text message, I’d end it with the Pile of Poo emoji.  Just another thing I was supposed to do, but didn’t.

Yet, here’s the thing…I’m not even sure if I want a kid at this point.

GASP!

Am I allowed to say that?

Growing up, I was deathly afraid of becoming a mom, mainly because I didn’t think I’d be a very good one.  In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure why I felt this way, being that I have the most spectacular, wonderful, caring Mom in the whole wide world.  She taught me what true love is, and I know if I was (or am) ever blessed with a child, that kid would be loved to the moon and back, and beyond.

Yet, as I’ve grown older, I’ve become less afraid of what kind of mom I would be, and more afraid of raising a child in today’s world.  It’s scary out there, and I’m not so sure it would be smart to bring a child into the current environment.  My baby might grow up to be a narcissistic, fame-hungry, reality star, and if that’s the case, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

The horror!  The horror!

One thing about my upbringing that factors into all this is that I am an only child, which means, according to the stereotype, I am selfish, spoiled, bossy, bratty, demanding, and my only friends are those of the imaginary kind.  I don’t believe this to be true, but others do, which supports my theory – some people are just plain stupid.  But I digress…

My issue with being an only child has nothing to do with how I was raised or my lack of siblings, but all to do with the fact that absolutely everything is on me.  It’s on me, and me only, to be successful.  It’s on me, and me only, to be married.  It’s on me, and me only, to provide my parents, the two people who gave me life, with grandchildren.  It’s on me, and me only, to keep the Martino-Dietlein legacy going.

That’s a lot of responsibility to be on just one person.

But, I owe my Mom and Dad.  They deserve to be grandparents, and I am the only person who can make this happen.  Yet, as I think more about it, do I want a child more for them, or myself?

What a cluster-fu*k.

The truth is, I long to find a companion in life.  I long to be a professional writer.  I think about both of these things, constantly.

When it comes to children, I think about them too, but I associate more pangs of guilt, envy and failure with them than I do that same longing that comes with finding my soulmate or publishing my first novel.  Those are my dreams, first and foremost.

It’s not that being a mother wouldn’t be a dream come true as well.  It’s not that at all.  It’s just – as the years seem to fly by – this aspiration has faded.  It has been drilled in my head that I am too old to have a baby.  I ran out of time.  I know what you’re going to say, “Look at Halle Berry – she had a kid at nearly fifty years old.”  To which I would remind you, “I am no Halle Berry.  The only thing we have in common is that we’re both female.”

I could freeze my eggs.  I could adopt.  I could raise a child on my own.

I could.  But I don’t want to.

GASP!

Am I allowed to say that?

I’ve always visualized having a child with someone else.  I want daddy to be in the picture, and I want him to marry me prior to Baby Doe’s arrival.  I want all or nothing.  And right now, I’ve got a whole lot of nothing.

They say that age is simply a frame of mind and doesn’t matter.  Which is true…but I’m not so sure it applies to having a child.

A child would be wonderful, but I want to be able to pick that child up.  Hear what that child has to say.  Stay completely focused through that child’s upbringing.  Watch that child graduate…get married…have babies…ugh, my only-child shame has suddenly returned.

Seriously, is there a cutoff date for having children?

Janet Jackson just had a baby at fifty, which is amazing.  But – and correct me if I’m wrong, as my math is a bit rusty – wouldn’t that make her nearly seventy when the child graduates high school?  Plus, this Queen of Pop might be losing a little rhythm in her nation by then, and might even need a hip replacement or Cataract surgery.

Just saying….

Yet, as a woman, aren’t I supposed to want to have it all?  Husband, baby, career and whatever else is included in that all?  And if I were truly dedicated, wouldn’t I pursue that at any age?   I’ve never had the internal desire to have it all – I’ve just wanted to have what I could handle.  I’ve learned through the years that I can handle a lot, but I’m not always the most graceful holding it all together.  I worry I wouldn’t have the stamina to be a “Supermom”.  I can barely keep up with my own schedule, more or less school plays, soccer games, homework, sleepovers and so on.  Yet, I do know I would do anything for my own child, so…

I honestly don’t know the answer to this one.  I don’t know how I feel.  I am so conflicted.  I always thought I’d be married with children at a “young-ish” age, and that didn’t happen.  Recently, I’ve started to accept the fact that I’m over forty and haven’t followed the traditional paths of life.  I’ve also learned to accept myself, which is something I needed to do before investing in any future relationships, with man, baby, alien, or whoever.

I never say never – anything is possible.  However, if I am not blessed with a child, will I be able to live with it?

I think so.

But will others?

For now, I think I need to focus on my own self-improvement, and stop worrying so much about what others think of me, society thinks of me, and what I consider to be my “so-called” failures.  I need to embrace the happiness of those around me, and rather than compare myself to them, just be completely happy for them – no sadness, no jealousy, no guilt – because really, that’s what life is all about – Being Happy.

And I’m getting there…one blog post at a time. 😊

And she continued to live Hopefully Ever After.