Postponing Parenthood - Babies for us?

It's inevitable. You date someone for a while in your 20s and 30s, and soon you're increasingly faced with The Question. The choice of words varies, but the meaning is always the same: When are you going to get married? At some point, you say I do. Vows are exchanged, you begin to settle in to married life, and immediately there's another Big Question: So, when are you going to have kids?

DUH, you might say. Of course. Lots of us are fielding that question. Yet, I guess naively, I didn't expect it to come up so much in my little bubble of a world. Practically everyone asks. And I do mean everyone. Just last weekend I had a very awkward conversation with the owner of a nail salon after a pedicure. I didn't see it coming as she processed my payment at the counter. Are you married? she asked as she craned her neck to look for a ring. I saw her eyes register confirmation, and I felt that now familiar sinking sensation in my stomach. I knew predictably what comes next: Do you have kids?

See? She was it. There's no one left to ask. (I tried answering with a simple "no" as The Husband suggested I do, instead of rushing headlong into some sort of longer explanation in anticipation of follow up questions. The nip-it-in-the-bud-with-a-clipped-response strategy. No dice. Oh, so do you want kids? Are you trying? Waiting until later? She eyed me up and down doubtfully with that last one. I'm sure correctly assessing that there's little time left for "later" at this point.)

Whether by circumstance or choice, "maybe someday" has been the default answer. Yes, through my extensive personal research, I've learned there's a label for me and the choices I've made. I'm what the self-proclaimed experts call a Postponer.

When I was a kid, I always assumed I'd have kids eventually. I bought wholeheartedly into the singsong dream of love, marriage, and babies. Of course, my fantasy also included marrying River Phoenix...until I went through my NKOTB phase. According to the paper fortune teller, Joey and I might end up living in a trailer, but the minimum number of kids written on the lined notebook paper was always 1.

Looking back, I'm not sure I demonstrated a ton of early maternal flair. My preferred childhood games typically gave me the opportunity to be bossy, so that's something. One of my faves was playing school with my sister, with me as the teacher who was always trying to get her to sit in the corner wearing the dunce cap. She hated it and would often march off in a huff. Later on I tortured my littlest sister by telling her she was adopted. She cried and ran to my mother while I laughed. The storylines of my Barbie adventures involved cool outfits, fancy jobs, rearranging the furniture in the Dream House, a happening club scene, and lots of dirty sex acts with Ken. Sure, there was a surprise pregnancy or two for Barbie, which led to *drama*, but the kid would conveniently fade out of the storyline shortly after arriving on the scene. Much like how it works on TV.

I liked the idea, the excitement, of being pregnant and having a baby, but Barbie and I weren't too interested in the mothering that came after.

I did and still do like kids, though. I like talking with them and hearing their world views. Some of my best conversations ever have been with small children. It's easy to get a laugh out of the little ones, and I appreciate that. As a teenager my summers were filled with babysitting gigs, either for my younger sisters or neighbor families in need of cheap childcare. I worked in daycare my first couple of years in college, mainly with two and three year olds, and I was pretty good at it. A couple of little ones liked me enough that their parents asked me to babysit. I adored the kids and had a blast with them, keeping in touch with the families even after I moved on. But, without fail, I always felt relieved when bedtime came around. What I remember most is feeling happy and free as I drove home after the parents returned. You see, I enjoyed kid time best knowing that my own time would soon return.

Not much changed, and I continued to assume that one day I'd have kids. Except, as I approached my 30s and got to know myself better, my thought process shifted from "someday" to "maybe not". I witnessed friends starting families, and my own family welcomed two nephews and a niece. They're amazing and I love spending time with them. Often, tears come to my eyes thinking about how much I love them, and I can't wait to watch them grow up. Yet, I also want freedom and need solitude, two things that are in short order once kids arrive. I've had to acknowledge that I'm an introvert at heart, and I feel acutely when my energy supply is tapped out. I become prone to tears, mopey withdrawal, and emotional outbursts, making those around me miserable until I have some down time. Considering this, I can't ignore the nagging voice that asks, Do I want this? Am I cut out for parenting? And, at my clinically advanced maternal age, can I even have kids?

Parenthood choices weren't a pressing issue for a long time, as I spent a good chunk of my late 20s and early 30s single, so my flip-flop decisions were always purely hypothetical, driven by present conditions. Like being around a kid who was acting like an asshole. But now here I am. Newly married and 37. Bound in matrimony and our ambivalence about becoming parents, The Husband and I have postponed ourselves down to the wire. It's go time if there is going to be a go time, and I still don't know what I want to do. We don't know what to do.