Not The mama

“But I am not a mother!” I protest for the thirty-seventh year in a row. Okay, maybe I am being a bit dramatic. It has only been about fifteen years since I have been rejecting the accolades. Each Valentine’s Day, Christmas, Easter or Thanksgiving, I can eagerly return the greeting but on Mother’s Day it feels fraudulent. I have birthed no babies, even though I have given figurative birth to many things. When people inquire about my children, I often tell them that instead I have books. I smile as they batter me with talk of my dying eggs and the ticking clock that seems to hang over my head but just out of my view. It would be cliché to say this happens only to women, or moreso to women. It feels like I can’t have a common cold or a stomach flu without cooing bystanders implying that I might be pregnant. Every time I am close to a child, I am praised for my ability to be so good with them, as if not having children myself makes me inept to the basic assistance of a person a third my size.

Me and tiny people have a lot in common; I love naps and cartoons and chicken nuggets are one of my favorite foods. Making excuses for not having children is possibly a pastime of mine. It gets difficult to explain that it really is nobody’s business after all. When and if I choose to become a parent, I take with me all the things I have learned over the many years of evading pregnancy like a defensive lineman. It gets tricky at doctor’s appointments, when I am being asked with increased alarm when I will be having a child. It makes me nervous now, that ticking clock has gotten louder…tick, tick…tick. I wonder if I am missing out. Is there something about a 3:00 a.m. feeding or a dirty diaper that love alone will cure? Am I letting the clock run out while I continue to have a good time? What’s for sure is that each Mother’s Day I feel a little anxiety at the prospect of the club I haven’t joined and I wonder if and when I ever will.