I have had bizarrely realistic, sometimes almost prophetic, dreams my entire life. As a child I would recount tales of my dreams to my mother and she would revel at the details I had experienced and remembered upon waking. It seems now that my mental struggles with being 30-years old and childless have crept into my sleep psyche and resulted in dreams (literally nightmares) about motherhood.

I had a dream a few nights ago that I had just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Proud new daddy Joel (my real-life fiancé) came to the hospital to pick up the new baby and me. The hospital staff stopped us and asked to inspect our car seat for the baby. Confusion ensued because we were unprepared. We didn’t have a car seat. We had simply fail to purchase one. We explained to the nurses that we had forgotten and they informed us that we would not be allowed to take the baby home without a car seat, and since the hospital was closing in an hour we would need to leave the baby overnight and come back in the morning.

We called on Joel’s bff Stefano, now referring to him as “Uncle Stefano,” to run to Target really quickly and pick up a car seat. He sped off to find a store and we proceeded to plead with the hospital staff to stay open a little while longer to allow us to take the baby home. They were unwilling to accommodate two such irresponsible new parents, informing us that they would close promptly on the hour and perhaps it was better if the child remained in their care for another night, just for the baby’s safety. In my dream I knew they were right. We sat waiting, counting down the minutes, anxious for Stefano to arrive with a car seat, but I had already thoroughly admitted defeat. My first night as a mother and I had already failed.

I have officially categorized this dream as a nightmare because of the sheer terror that I felt in realizing that I was totally unprepared for child care in such a glaring way. The imagined hospital staff was judging me, and I concluded that I was irresponsible and unfit to care for an infant. I woke up in a panic, and moments later was relieved to discover it wasn’t real. It was as scary as any nightmare that could ever be had about being stalked by a murderer or showing up to school without pants.

Three words: Toddlers and Tiaras. It could be renamed “Driving Past A Tragic Car Accident On the Freeway and Craning Your Neck to Catch a Glimpse of A Decapitated Body.” It is my understanding that most people watch this show for the shock value of the crazed mothers and their show-dog daughters. I’m supposed to be outraged watching tiny girls with false eyelashes, spray tans, hair pieces, and fake teeth, but I have a shameful secret… I think it would be fun to have a daughter in beauty pageants.

I actually did admit this out loud do my former roommate. With very little hesitation she retorted that she could see me making a hobby out of it as well. She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t think twice about it. I’m the type of person who dresses up her dog in costumes and takes pictures. I’m the type of person who has those pictures made into calendars and gives them to friends and family members as Christmas gifts. And apparently I’m just the type of egocentric monster to involve her daughter in the chaos of adolescent beauty pageants.

“How could you do that to a child?” you may ask. Certainly it can be difficult watching a human doll being judged by adults and having a hysterical breakdown when she is informed that she is not the winner. But I venture to believe that this sort of thing can happen anywhere in the life of a child who is involved in competitive activities.

I played soccer for almost ten years, starting when I was seven years old and all the way into high school. It’s a sport that is commonly considered a healthy avenue for young gals to be active physically and learn the rules of sportsmanship. Even so, there were always those girls who had a more passionate flair for drama and broke down in hysterics every the referee made a call against them or the trophy was presented to another team. The same screaming little girl may have a tantrum in any competitive pursuit. And the young ladies who possess this passionate flair for drama may be the ones who naturally excel in the dog-and-pony-show child pageants.

So I guess my point is… They have to learn somehow. Why not in a full-glitz asshole parade? I’ll be the tattooed psycho in the front row who is miming her daughter’s dance routine and threatening to stab the other moms with a switchblade.

Two people I know had babies last week. My Facebook feed is swamped with pictures of beautiful sleeping little bundles, one boy and one girl. This is the fun part, the tearful part, the joyful part. This is the part of the movie that convinces me that I can push out a baby and still look good smiling in the hospital photos that daddy takes for the baby book. The new mommy and daddy basking in the light of the tiny, freshly born person wrapped in a hospital blanket. This is the part that makes my empty, echoing uterus yearn for an occupant.

I also recently found out that another friend of mine is pregnant with her first child. The happiness that I felt upon hearing the news only slightly outweighed the pang of jealousy that shot through me. She is beautiful and I am sincerely happy for her, even proud of her. It’s not a race, but if it was I feel like I’d be falling behind the pack right now.

 

The machines know too much.

Last night I posted a link to this blog on Facebook.  These are the ads that Facebook chose to bring to my attention.  The social pressures are never-ending.  Big Brother is watching, and he thinks it’s time for me to get married and have a baby.

I got engaged a few weeks ago. My sweet, charming boyfriend of two years is now my fiancé. This news seems to bring the usual bombardment of the following invasions of privacy:

1. How did he do it?! (he got on one knee and said “Will you marry me?”)

2. Let me see the ring! (it’s a band with diamonds in it… I’m pretty sure you’ve seen one before)

3. When’s the wedding? (June)

4. Are you guys gonna have kids? (yes)

I find each of these to be an annoyance, but #4 is the worst. There’s nothing like a sparkling ring on a left hand ring finger to synch the baby noose around a thirty-year old woman’s neck a little tighter.

Many women may have the luxury of waiting until they actually have children before the strains of juggling home life and a career begin.  Lucky me – I’m not even pregnant yet and already the clash between motherhood and my job is giving me a headache.  I work in a biohazardous environment, my job is very physically demanding, and it requires a lot of heavy lifting.  When someone in my career becomes pregnant it’s pretty much standard practice that she be placed behind a desk for the entirety of her maternal gestation. Factor in a few months of maternity leave and she won’t actually be doing her job for an entire year.

Losing a member of the team for an entire year without being able to hire a replacement is, without question, challenging for a boss.  Since my marital status has become pending, my boss has now requested that I “let her know” when we are going to start trying to have a kid. She actually wants a “heads up” that I might be getting pregnant soon.  She mentioned this to me on one previous occasion, but I sincerely thought she was joking. She used the example of another coworker who came to work one day and surprised her with the news that she was pregnant. Apparently our boss felt blindsided by the announcement and has now resorted to asking for advanced notice. Basically, “Let me know when you start trying to get pregnant.” This makes my skin crawl for the following reasons:

1. She’s assuming I will get pregnant on purpose.  I was kind of hoping for an effortless, pleasant accident. Maybe she’s giving me credit for being way more organized than I actually am.

2. “Trying to get pregnant” means having sex, and I’m being asked to let my boss know that that’s what I’m doing. Creepy.

3. Many couples have difficulty conceiving.  I have a secret underlying fear of it.  If it was discovered that we could not magically produce offspring just by making up our minds to do so, her knowledge of the situation would feel like a huge imposition.  If I must suffer, let me suffer in privacy.

4. Isn’t nine months enough of a “heads up?!” If I was going to quit my job I would only give 30-days notice.  And if I was going to break my arm and be rendered disabled for a few months I wouldn’t give any notice.  The pregnancy itself IS the heads up… 9 months of advanced notice that a baby is on it’s way.

It is a hassle for a supervisor to rearrange the entire workplace to accommodate a pregnant woman. But how, exactly, can someone be asked to share plans of an impending conception, an act of nature and anatomy, an act of GOD (some may say)? Asking for advanced notice that we are going to start trying to have a baby is like asking for advanced notice that I’m planning on getting whip-lash in a car accident. If we do start officially “trying” to get pregnant I don’t want to feel pressured into sharing the progress with anyone outside of our home.  And if I do show up to work some day and announce, unexpectedly, and I am pregnant, forgive me if I don’t apologize for ruining your day.

Every potential parent starts out with a list of strategies, demands, and requirements for their future child rearing approach.  Mine is simple.  I’m going to teach my kids how to do things.

I was raised in a household where worldly experience was a major emphasis.  When I was nine years old my grandmother put me on a plane and I flew from LAX to London by myself, meeting my parents at the other end of my journey across the Atlantic.  Touring the planet, eating foods in foreign countries, and witnessing the vast world beyond my backyard was valuable experience to my young mind.  But years later I would learn just how painfully unexperienced I was in practical knowledge of day-to-day living.

I was 21 years old and starting a new job at a tattoo shop.  The supervisor who hired me, Linda, was giving a tour of the shop to all of the newly hired employees, myself included.  I was eager to please and determined to outshine the all-male cast of fellow newbies.  Frantically taking quick mental notes, I memorized everything she said about the basics of sterilization and how to avoid cross contamination.  Linda escorted our group to a small closet in the rear of the shop and opened the door to reveal a washing machine and dryer, racks of shop towels, and detergent.  She skimmed this part of the tour, explaining briefly, “Everyone knows how to do a load of laundry.” With that, she moved on down the hallway and on to the next topic.   My heart was broken.  I was too humiliated to admit that I, in fact, did not know how to do a load of laundry.

For the first two decades of my life I threw my dirty clothes on the floor and a magical laundry fairy (my mom? my grandmother? our housekeeper? an actual fairy?) picked them up, washed and folded them, and returned them to my closet.  I also didn’t have the vaguest concept of the realistic cost of living.  Having been blindly supplied with everything I ever needed and wanted I was hopelessly unprepared for adult life.  The college degree framed and hung in my mother’s living room is of little use to a person who had never been formally introduced to a bill or bank statement. To this day I struggle to keep up with basic demands like maintaining my own automobile.  I drive a nice car and I make the payments every month, but it is grossly overdue for an oil change and there has been a large dollop of bird shit on the hood for three weeks now.  With all the money my parents shelled out for private school and college tuition, they failed to advance my knowledge of basic life maintenance.

This leaves me with a firm resolve that my children will be more prepared.  They may not tour Europe before their 10th birthday, but they will understand how much car insurance costs.  Even if I fail at every other aspect of motherhood, as a maternal caregiver I will take the time to spare them the shame and embarrassment of having to admit, on their first day of work, that they are unprepared to load dirty towels into a washing machine, dump in some detergent, and push the correct combination of buttons.