Can't Win for Losing

I want to want to have children.

Circumstantially, it certainly appears that my (historically unruly) ducks are all lined up neatly on the path to procreation: I am 32 years old; I have been happily married for over four years; I am reasonably sane; I have a wonderfully supportive network of family and friends.

This network is so supportive; in fact, that they often take it upon themselves to personally assuage what they must collectively perceive to be deep-seated insecurity on my part in terms of my belief in my overall mothering capabilities. It is both heartwarming and unnerving to be so completely showered with compliments.

In fact, if you are ever suffering a bout of low self-esteem, announce to a group of family and friends that you do not want to have children and suddenly the room will be awash with unrelenting enthusiasm for even your most marginal attributes.


The irony to that situation is that I am, of course, deeply insecure about my own potential to be a mother. So, nice as it is to hear, no amount of flattery— sincere or fabricated—can change such a fundamental belief.

The reason I feel I harbor insecurities is not because I feel I would be destined to failure in such a role. I know that I would give parenting one hundred and twelve percent of my efforts if I ever chose that particular option in the choose your own adventure that is my life in progress. And then, I also realize that some of the outcome is simply not in my control. And I could accept that.

If I chose to be a mother.

My main problem is that I do not feel innately inclined to motherhood. I do not coo over babies, I do not feel my life is currently incomplete, my imagined future dreams simply do not have children in them. The whole notion petrifies me. I take this as a sign: I do believe is that I if I truly felt I was meant to be a mother, most of my fears would naturally subside.

Oddly, whenever I think about actually being a mother, I am somehow intellectually diverted to my longtime fear of heights (also both a prevalent and inexplicable concern). Perhaps my brain makes this seemingly unlikely connection because success on either account is hardly an abstract or intangible concept; these are clearly cases where doing is the only way to gauge preparedness.

I could allow myself to be talked into, say, skydiving, only to be dangling out of a tiny plane, all strapped up to a parachute and a guide/crazy lunatic who tumbles out into thin air several times a day. And then, guess what? My fear is now roaring out of control and there is only one way to go: down. Fast.

Of course, I feel comforted by the fact that I have never felt a visceral need or want to have children. For that matter, I have never felt compelled to go skydiving. And, in truth, I consider both pursuits to be largely optional, expensive, and unpredictable activities. So there you have it. Problem solved. See you on terra firma. Just not in Babies R Us.

Unfortunately, things are not so simple. For one thing, having arrived--rather abruptly, I might add--at my early thirties, many of my friends and peers are caught up in the throes of baby mania. Unlike when I was in junior high school and all my peers were absorbed by what I can only accurately describe as “foolish outfit and hair mania” (see the post on Dinosaur t-shirts for more information) this is not a case where I feel emulating my peers is the route to either personal or social success.

Yet what this situation has done is placed me in a personal pickle of sorts because now I actually must confront my own inner guilt at not wanting to procreate. Due to the particular place I am now occupying on the projected timeline of my life, it seems that this is a topic at the forefront. Therefore I find myself sort of forced to visit and revisit it on a somewhat regular basis.

Complicating matters is that a few years ago I had an unexpected health situation arise and ended up having to see a specialist in order to try to figure it out. So I went to a doctor. And another. And another. And another. Almost two years later I was still without diagnosis.

All was not lost though because through the process, I did gain adequate confirmation of what I had been long suspecting as an ardent House fan: medicine is a guessing game.

Ultimately, the “diagnosis,” after countless tests and retests was incredibly vague. The only piece of said diagnosis that everyone seemed to agree upon was that conceiving would be extremely difficult for me, if even possible.

Now, you might be thinking, well that worked out swimmingly. She did not want to have children and was feeling guilty about the whole situation and now biology has gone and made the decision easy for her. Case closed.

Except you might also remember that I only ever claimed to be “reasonably sane”--which, in my jargon is actually code for “utterly emotionally insane”--so I did what any “reasonably” sane person would do upon hearing news that could, ostensibly, make much of my inner emotional turmoil dissipate: I cried hysterically in the parking lot of the doctor’s office.

And then I decided I needed an objective opinion. If you read my last post then it will come as no surprise that I went to the reflexologist. You know, the natural next step. Yup, off to the basement of fairies and angels to be diagnosed by the foot/witch doctor.

In any case, she listened to my whole story about my issues and proclaimed that she would "cure" me. By the way, I feel it important to note here that the impetus for my visiting her was not because I wanted doctors to assure me of positive reproductive health, but that I wanted to stop being a human pin cushion obtaining nothing but unsatisfactory diagnosis after unsatisfactory diagnosis.

It was a great conversation. For example, she told me that of course my body was messed up since I had been tricking it into thinking I was pregnant with a baby horse for the ten years I was on the pill.

Yup.

She also offered advice: she felt I had to start eating copious amounts of orange colored foods. I left the office, went to the grocery store and bought bags of oranges and carrots, and was still straddling the fence between skepticism and optimism.

Two weeks later, after 22 months of medical uncertainty, I re-visited one of the specialists and was pronounced "cured."

Incidentally, a few months ago I was in Europe. I allowed myself to be cajoled into traveling to the top of an Alp in a ridiculously unstable looking cable car; because I was assured that the view and the experience would be life-altering (presumably in a good way). Again, as a “reasonably” sane person, I went into the little café before boarding the death contraption and ordered a beer. And a shot of what I think was pear schnapps.

I am nothing if not thorough.

In sum, I closed my eyes the entire way up the mountain, white-knuckling both the stability bar and the arm of my unfortunate neighbor, I exited at the top, took two steps onto the mountain, retreated back into the café (thank goodness those were plentiful), and ordered another beer.

It was a miserable experience and I was not glad I did it. I hope you can see where I am going with my analogy.

So, upon my return from Europe, I happened to go back to the reflexologist. Evidently, I just cannot stay away.

This time she was thrilled about the positive energy I was allegedly exuding. She was also exuberant over my “baby energy.” Despite my protests, she was adamant about the baby I was going to have in the future—a little girl. I told her that I had made peace with my non-nurturing disposition and that I was only starting to feel happy and clear about my path to non-motherhood. She smiled (mockingly?) and resigned herself by saying she just"felt it."

So I did what any reasonably sane person would do: I left her office, and cried hysterically.

Sometimes you just cannot win.