*wrote this is 2011*
I moved to Bushwick territory in the fall of last year. Within a week or two of moving, I kept hearing baby cries/noises, but no baby. There were no babies in my house!
So the more I heard these baby cries, the louder and more persistent this fairytale child was, the more convinced I was that my biological clock was ticking in mad overdrive. I did think 23 was a bit young for Mother Nature to remind me that I have a good 12-27 years until I’d no longer be able to conceive a child. And I hadn’t accomplished my major milestones yet: getting my degree, becoming a world-renowned writer/filmmaker/photographer/activist, getting both my brownstone in Brooklyn Heights (because that’s what writers do!) and my ranch/palace in northern California (because that’s what rich people do), snagging an artist boyfriend or maybe a dude who can cook (because that’s what’s “expected” of me).
And then I thought about that time when I was 16 when I was convinced I was going to have a baby even though I was a virgin (Divine Intervention, perhaps?). There was this heavenly glow in my living room with this adorable three-year-old looking at me in his cerulean (that’s a shade of blue-green, for those not hip to colours) overalls and saying, “Mama?” in that way that only toddlers in my dreams can (complete with head tilt and quizzical look). And part of me still wanted to have a baby like that, dress him in Victorian regalia, show him off to everyone, etc (I also realized I suffered from mild delusions and hallucinations, but who doesn’t?)
I was like, shit! I’m ready to be a mommy! Never mind the fact that I’ve despised kids most of my life or that I let my ex’s then one-year-old niece fall off the bed and I just blinked and stared at her as she cried. Or that the thought of pushing a baby out of me terrifies me and makes me queasy to no end. Dammit, I was going to be the world’s most amazing mommy, even if I didn’t have the resources necessary to accomplish that.
And then, about a month later, I realized that there was, in fact, a baby in the house. Downstairs, with one of my roommates.
Welp, so much for a biological clock! I quickly reverted to my ol’ baby-hatin’ self.
I’d still like to pull an Angelina Jolie, though.