Covetous

There are times when I find children to be shrill, annoying, needy, nerve-shattering, deafening, ungrateful, rude, inconsiderate, and out-of-control. And there are times when all I think about is what it would feel like to be pregnant, to feel the life inside my body, to give birth to a new squirming, mewling, helpless and yet utterly beautiful new creature, to raise and love and teach a little boy or girl that I helped to create, to develop a lasting and loving relationship with a person I can be proud of.

I waver between the idealized version of motherhood and the absolute hatred of the very idea of having to permanently deal with one of these brats. Neither is really all that healthy.

I suspect I have the potential to be an excellent mother. I also suspect that that potential would be largely unfulfilled, as lazy as I am. I suspect I could bring a lot to the life of a child. I also suspect that I could be just as damaging to one as any abusive and horrible, or even neglectful parent you read about in the news, simply because I am selfish.

I wonder if having a baby would get rid of a lot of that selfishness and laziness. Mostly I don't, though, because I know it probably wouldn't entirely. I'd act like I do towards the cat when she wakes me up every fifteen minutes on a work-night; eventually snap and scream at it and momentarily not care if I hurt it. Every parent snaps every now and then, but I'd do it often, every time the baby disrupted my doing something necessary, something I really, really wanted to do, prevented me from getting something, doing something for myself, enjoying myself.

I'd scream at a toddler, at a child, at a teenager. I don't have enough control over myself, my temper, and my patience. I don't know if I ought to risk finding out if motherhood would help with that. I suspect it wouldn't, much.

Maybe, like with any of my projects, I'd be gung-ho about it for a while, and then gradually lose interest. I'd lose interest in my child. That's a horribly sobering thought.

Then I think I'm being far too hard on myself. Maybe I'd transfer all my interest to the baby. After all, a baby is a never-ending craft project! A baby gives you things to write about, and communities to join, and all the intangible things like love and warmth! But why would I need a baby for all those things?

A baby is...a lot of money. But a baby doesn't have to be as much as we think it does, if you don't use disposable diapers, buy used clothing or accept hand-me-downs, breastfeed as long as possible, co-sleep for a while. But a baby is still more expensive than NOT having a baby.

Do I actually want a baby, or do I simply want the security of always having someone to love me and take care of me? Do I actually want a baby, or do I want what society tells me having a baby will do for me? Do I actually want a baby, or do I just want an excuse for unhappiness, or a catalyst for change, or an experiment to make me happy? Do I just want something that is wholly mine, some trace to leave on the world when I die? Am I only afraid that my DNA will die out?

These are the things that go through my head when my biological clock goes off with the force of a thousand sirens and punches my rapidly-aging ovaries in the face. I never really know the answer to these questions. I never really know what I want. But that doesn't make me any less jealous when I see a baby in the supermarket, read the birth announcement of a friend's.

I guess since I know that, barring a birth control mishap, I will likely never have one, I will always secretly, deep down inside, maybe possibly kinda-sorta want one.

Because we always want what we can't have. Human nature, and all.