I just came back from the hospital, visiting my housemate, one of my oldest friends, who just gave birth. And somehow, it brought me back here.
It’s been almost two years since I first revisited The Question of Parenthood and tried to put into words how I felt then.
Looking back now, I realise that I was still — in some ways — shapeshifting.
Not entirely. But enough to blur the truth.
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I grew up pretending I was a mother; carrying dolls in my arms, soothing imaginary daughters from their nightmares, giving made-up sons the hugs and kisses I wished to have received. The make-believe continued well into my first serious relationship, right out of high school. We knew the name of our unborn kids and, for the first time ever, I was not playing house alone. I believed with every fiber of my being that I wanted to get married by 25 and meet the children of our dreams.
Until I turned 25, then 26, then 27… and I was nowhere near where I wanted to be. As we grew older, we grew apart. Our dissolution planted seeds of doubts. Life didn’t feel quite so straightforward anymore. Maybe I should focus on myself. Maybe I should focus on my mess. Maybe I shouldn’t be a mother. Maybe I never really wanted to.
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IntotheMarsh 