I closed off summer with a week at a rented cottage with my guy and his family in shifts. It was lovely, but tiring, and of course I procrastinated on journalling and focussing on the kids stuff. It felt very rude to say to the people who had come to spend time with us for a short period that I wanted to go off alone to think. It provided a stellar excuse.
For the last couple of days we stayed at the cottage of one of his friends, who head down to the beach every day to sit on matching Tommy Bahamas chairs with the other local cottagers, sip white wine, take turns on jet skis and play badminton. It was all very posh and lovely and privileged AF. I was the new girlfriend, and therefore the sideshow. Questions, deeply personal questions, were volleyed at me at such speed I barely had time to think of the appropriate response given the fact that a number of them were friends with my guy’s ex and might very well report back with the deets.
“So never married, no kids?” was a question I got asked more than once. And it made me feel so small. Like I was being reduced to an acronym, NMNK, with the associated stereotypes. Like I has so little to offer amidst this melee of generational connection, kids running through the frigid water while the parents watched on, husbands and wives gathering in cliques and conversation.
Another question, by the woman who knew his ex the most intimately “So, do you want to have kids?” My brain barely had time to process. If I was amongst my girlfriends, or even strangers I would relay the whole story. But I’m trying to keep the water calm and not freak anyone out with my desires. What should I say?
I ended up responding that I had always wanted kids (is this really true?), but that I was getting a bit old now, however had frozen my eggs sooooo… I tried to leave it as open as possible. Always feeling the need to throw in that “I’m well aware of my age” caveat (people like to remind you of this if you don’t bring it up yourself. Like maybe they will be the first to tell us about the biological clock). They were kind, despite the inappropriate questioning, and said that I had been smart to do so. End of conversation. Phewf.
But I of course left the weekend feeling totally depleted. Like I had failed. Like it was too late. Because even if I decide (and finally stop procrastinating) that I really do in my heart of hearts want to have a kid, I have to get started immediately, me and my guy will be back in that difficult spot we were in last Spring, and I will need to go it alone. The how, as opposed to the why that I’ve been instructed to focus on, would come back into play and I would probably flip out and shut down…again.
My psychologist would ask me why I keep procrastinating on tapping into my intuition, finishing up my course, opening the email with information on sperm donations. And it’s not hard to figure out. I don’t want to know that answer, because the weight of it will be hard to carry (though the weight of no decision is pretty fucking heavy).
Back when my beau and I were in trouble and he was overwhelmed, I made the decision to wait until September to address anything serious with him again. I wanted us to reconnect over a fun summer with no pressure. COVID and issues with his daughter and the kid pressure on my end and everything else had just burnt us out.
So I need to approach the conversation again next week. My summer of reprieve is officially over. I’m very afraid. But fear is a given, I’ve gotta do it anyway I guess. Power on!