I’d be a kick-ass mom. My kids would be amazing and adorable and Tyler and I would have a blast being parents. Plus, I’ve always “wanted” to have kids. It would be really awesome to leave a legacy in the form of tiny (turned not tiny) humans. Imagine the things I could teach them. I bet I could raise a child who changes the world, or at the very least changes other peoples’ lives for the better.
After my short marriage and subsequent divorce at the age of 27, I knew that if I were going to become a parent it wouldn’t be for a while. That didn’t stop my ovaries from talking to me though. They seemed to have a hotline wired from the depths of my abdomen straight to my brain which they used to scream “USE US, LADY, USE US!!!”
The hormonal part of me was all for the idea. “Hell yeah. Knock me up. I was made for this motherhood shit.” And then the rational part of my brain was all, “Slow your role, hormones. This girl can’t even get her own act together. She isn’t anywhere near ready to be in charge of another human.” The acquisition of serious boyfriend made the ovaries louder.
The acquisition of a mortgage and a dog shut them right up, though. Then it was more like “Oh, boy. We don’t need to take on any more responsibility these days. We’ll get around to procreating eventually, and we’ll still be kick ass parents and have a blast. Just not any time soon.”
Many important people in my life have had babies recently. I truly expected to watch these dear friends become mothers and then want to spring into tiny-human-making-action myself. Seeing the love and pride and adoration involved in becoming a parent is such an incredible a thing. I figured I’d witness all of this amazingness and want the same thing for myself. It didn’t really happen that way though. I put off the baby making even more. It was like “Eh, not now, maybe after a couple of years, or after we pay off our credit cards, or after we are settled in our careers, or after, after, after…”
AND THEN my brother knocked-up his girlfriend. I thought that would be it. This baby would come out and I’d meet him and love him and try to steal him but wouldn’t be allowed to, so would have to make one of my very own.
I got to hold my nephew in my ar
ms before he was an hour old. The magnitude of my love for this little person overwhelmed me the moment he was born. I never expected I could automatically love another human like that. It still amazes me. And I wonder what it would be like if that child were my own. I wonder how much stronger that bond, that amazement, that unconditional love would be if the kid had been created by Tyler and I and grown in my very own body.
It was the day after my nephew was born that I knew I definitely didn’t want to have children. I’m too selfish for it. I don’t want to be responsible for another human I feel that strongly for. I don’t want to sacrifice everything I know I would sacrifice for my child. I’m not willing to give that up all that I would have to in order to be a good parent. And the other option is being a crappy parent, which I’m not willing to do either. So, no babies.
It was tough decision to make because it requires saying “no” to the fantasies of being a mom that go back as far I can remember. It requires shutting a door on something I know I have no real understanding of. It requires turning down an adventure I think Ty and I would rock. But it also means opening myself up to a world of other options not possible or particularly plausible if I were to have a child of my own.
So, I had my Fallopian tubes removed last week.
When I tell people about my decision, the overwhelming response is fear for me that I’ll regret the decision to close that door. But honestly, deciding not to have kids was the hard part. It took years of thought and months of discussion. The way I have decided to execute that decision…that choice was quite easy to make, in comparison.
Yes, I could wake up in ten years and NEED BEYOND NEED to become a parent. Or maybe I’ll just wish I were one. If that happens, We’ll deal with it. We’ll try to adopt, or I’ll put all my effort into raising and training seeing eye dogs (random, but something I’ve always wanted to do), or I’ll travel
the country on my soapbox warning young women not to have their Fallopian tubes removed because they will regret it. I don’t know…but we’ll figure it out if we need to.
My point is that regret doesn’t scare me. Therefore, the potential for regret wasn’t something that carried too much weight in the “surgery yay or nay?” decision-making process. My biggest concern was whether the risks of surgery were worth making our decision officially official. They were.