The beginning of an essay of sorts
There is something off about your mother-in-law wanting, practically begging, you to have sex with her son. While I have no desire to have a child in my immediate future, she does, and suddenly my reproductive organs are on spotlight.
I do want a child…someday. My ovaries occasionally long for a little one. I pass by a Barack Obama children’s book and think about buying it, just in case. I flip through the JCrew catalogue, pausing on Crewcuts, and thinking how outrageous (and outrageously cute) it is to be charging a hundred dollars on a cashmere sweater for a two year old. I also think that maybe we could buy one outfit a year for our child for them to wear on special occasions, because, after all, everyone, even two-year olds, deserve cashmere. Red Sox onesies with “Little Papi” on the back makes my womb give me a thumbs-up sign. Little league games send my uterus into a-flutter, and baseball games all but have me throwing out my birth control. I see a kid a few rows ahead of us with his dad, both in matching jerseys. The kid has his glove with him even though they’re in the farthest section up. I look over at my husband and think, we could make it work.
But logic settles in. Words like credit card debt, Master’s Degree, and financial stability push out ideas of miniature coats and shoes. I know that we need to wait a few years, at least until I no longer can pass as a student at a high school. It would draw attention when I walk down the halls to get to class. I push aside dreams of Little Papi/Big Papi purchases, and instead dream of a Master’s and a down payment for some sort of lodging.
His parents aren’t so easily distracted from their grandchild longing. While in normal circumstances, one rarely talks about their sex life in public, let alone with their family, broach the baby subject, and your genitalia is open for discussion. Everyone from Cousin Angie to my husband’s 93 year-old Nana has an opinion on our reproductive proclivity. His mother’s: “you’ll give me grandchildren with one foot in the grave.” Nudges, winks, and the occasional hair tousle become involved in the talks, and soon, as you stand in the center of the circle, people are taking bets on when you’ll be knocked up.
I don’t consider myself a prude ⎯ maybe prudish, but I can’t help but get uncomfortable at situations like that. Perhaps it’s because I’m in no rush to pop out a baby from my vagina, or perhaps it’s that any parent talking about sex is a bit creepy. While shows like Sex in the City make it seem like all women discuss penis over drinks every Sunday, it seems to me like that’s rarely the case. Yes, penises (peni?) may pop up, so to speak, in conversation here and there, but Kim Cattralls are rare, and normally the girl discussing how she shaved her pubic hair into a racing stripe for a guy is usually the girl that doesn’t get invited to drinks on Sundays.
Instead, we normally talk about relationships, future plans, the possibility of having a kid one day. I’m sure once childbearing becomes more probable and possible, I will join in on the conversations. I’m sure that I’ll mention that “we’re trying,” and I might even announce that ovulation time is nearing. Perhaps then his mother and I can bond over the placement of my eggs in my fallopian tube. That is a possibility, but I think I’ll probably just keep my reproductive habits to myself.
I do want a child…someday. My ovaries occasionally long for a little one. I pass by a Barack Obama children’s book and think about buying it, just in case. I flip through the JCrew catalogue, pausing on Crewcuts, and thinking how outrageous (and outrageously cute) it is to be charging a hundred dollars on a cashmere sweater for a two year old. I also think that maybe we could buy one outfit a year for our child for them to wear on special occasions, because, after all, everyone, even two-year olds, deserve cashmere. Red Sox onesies with “Little Papi” on the back makes my womb give me a thumbs-up sign. Little league games send my uterus into a-flutter, and baseball games all but have me throwing out my birth control. I see a kid a few rows ahead of us with his dad, both in matching jerseys. The kid has his glove with him even though they’re in the farthest section up. I look over at my husband and think, we could make it work.
But logic settles in. Words like credit card debt, Master’s Degree, and financial stability push out ideas of miniature coats and shoes. I know that we need to wait a few years, at least until I no longer can pass as a student at a high school. It would draw attention when I walk down the halls to get to class. I push aside dreams of Little Papi/Big Papi purchases, and instead dream of a Master’s and a down payment for some sort of lodging.
His parents aren’t so easily distracted from their grandchild longing. While in normal circumstances, one rarely talks about their sex life in public, let alone with their family, broach the baby subject, and your genitalia is open for discussion. Everyone from Cousin Angie to my husband’s 93 year-old Nana has an opinion on our reproductive proclivity. His mother’s: “you’ll give me grandchildren with one foot in the grave.” Nudges, winks, and the occasional hair tousle become involved in the talks, and soon, as you stand in the center of the circle, people are taking bets on when you’ll be knocked up.
I don’t consider myself a prude ⎯ maybe prudish, but I can’t help but get uncomfortable at situations like that. Perhaps it’s because I’m in no rush to pop out a baby from my vagina, or perhaps it’s that any parent talking about sex is a bit creepy. While shows like Sex in the City make it seem like all women discuss penis over drinks every Sunday, it seems to me like that’s rarely the case. Yes, penises (peni?) may pop up, so to speak, in conversation here and there, but Kim Cattralls are rare, and normally the girl discussing how she shaved her pubic hair into a racing stripe for a guy is usually the girl that doesn’t get invited to drinks on Sundays.
Instead, we normally talk about relationships, future plans, the possibility of having a kid one day. I’m sure once childbearing becomes more probable and possible, I will join in on the conversations. I’m sure that I’ll mention that “we’re trying,” and I might even announce that ovulation time is nearing. Perhaps then his mother and I can bond over the placement of my eggs in my fallopian tube. That is a possibility, but I think I’ll probably just keep my reproductive habits to myself.