Pondering unfabulous


“Never have kids.”

Those words were uttered to me today at a family gathering, in hushed tones, by an adult.  A grown-up.  A parent.

Never have kids?  What??

But that’s all I’ve ever wanted.  That’s what my life has been leading up to, right?

I mean, if asked, I would say that my dream is to be a writer; to have a book, if not many, published.  But in reality that’s only second –and quite a distant second– to having a family.  It’s one of the only things I’m good at!

People only look at me and say “Wow.  You’re good at this.  This suits you,” when I’m directing something, showing off a weird makeup look or playing with kids.  I don’t know why.  I wish I knew.  And I wish I could picture any number of possible and fabulous futures for myself –so I’m not quite so limited!– but I can’t.

All I can see is the totally unfabulous and unglamourous life of motherhood.  Feels somewhat cliché, maybe even anti-feminist (even though I know it’s not), but I don’t care.  It’s what I want.  It’s what I’ve always wanted, ever since I was an eight-year-old with a dolly stuck up my shirt pretending to be pregnant and give birth, always, miraculously, to a little plastic girl.  I never grew out of it, which feels distressingly naïve.

I don’t understand why that’s what calls to me but I know I’d never write again if it meant I could be a parent.

And be good at it.  That bit is important.


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