I’ve really never understood the concept of the “biological clock,” nor have I tried. At the ripe age of 28 (by the way, I can still say that as of this writing) I am very aware that a good portion of my peers have popped-out at least one, if not four children. While that has not personally inspired me to start breeding, it has been a pretty amazing experience to watch my friends become incredible mothers. It seems like just yesterday I was the one projectile-vomiting on them, and now it’s the fruit of their loins that is doing the yacking.
I don’t necessarily feel any pressure to have children, which I find interesting considering that like most women for the last two centuries, I have been and will continue to be asked if/when I’ll have children. I still get asked in some shape or form, but not as frequently and I think I know why.
I’ve noticed that the conversation tends to either take a halt or get real personal whenever I mention my homosexuality. There are a few different types of responses: (1) a wide-eyed, “WAIT-BUT-HOW?!” look in their eyes. I can tell that their minds are racing as they try to put the numbers together, solve the equations and reference the periodic table trying to figure out how the fuck Sabrina is going to get a baby inside of her, (2) a blank stare until it registers, which leads to (3) a modest frown that reads, “Don’t fucking move or she’ll know I’m praying for her later,” or (4) an immediate attempt at a deep dive into my sperm strategy. These are not the responses of everyone; I’m just saying that I’ve seen them enough to recognize who is about to give them.
You see, women my age are either seasoned for the nonchalant but invasive questioning on motherhood, or they’ve already taken a bun out of their vagina-oven thus avoiding the passive-aggressive interrogation. I use “passive-aggressive” loosely because I believe for the most part the person inquiring about my procreation plans is not doing it to be an asshole. Curiosity is human nature. Humans have this innate yearning to not only lift the curtain, but stick their entire heads and a popcorn-wielding arm under it. That being said, not every itch is truly ours to scratch. Spending just a brief moment to consider whether or not the gal wants you all-up-in her reproductive business can do wonders for an interpersonal exchange. I would even go as far as to say that a woman will probably share her child-bearing news without being prompted. It’s a crazy thought, I know, but it just might work.
While I don’t feel any pressure to have a baby right now nor do I hear a faint sound of a ticking clock coming from my uterus, I would love to have a child of my own one day. I held my best friend’s newborn a few weeks ago. When he wrapped his tiny hand around my index finger, I thought for sure I was going to faint from all the love rushing through my body. Then he looked up at me, his sweet baby face staring me in the eyes, and he started wailing like I’ve never heard before in my life. The sweet stare became terror and it was at that moment that I was totally cool with pushing back motherhood another five years.
This is strange to say, but I’m almost a little envious of “breeders”—a term for heterosexual couples that I’ve loved for many, many years. Whether they’re trying to have a baby or it’s unplanned, there’s still a bit of an element of surprise. I haven’t done all the research, but from what I gathered I’m going to have to literally decide the day my life (and my partner’s life) will change forever. That’s fucking nerve-wrecking! One day in the next few years, I’m going to look at my week ahead and between my lunch meeting and laser hair removal appointment will be “get inseminated” or something along those lines. Now that I think about it, I should do it during the weekend so I can label it “Skeeterday!”
I know what you’re thinking and yes, I would be an awesome mother. And to the naive and/or nosey folks that probably couldn’t handle reading from this publication: I don’t know when I’m going to bring a child into this world, but when it’s time I’m going to be an awesome mother. Until then—and when it does, and after it happens—it’ll be on my terms. For now, my vagina will live to see another day and I’ll continue to enjoy being a badass auntie to like eight unofficial nieces and nephews. It’s not a bad life, y’all.