YoIt's funny to see the dating app profiles of straight men in their forties. I only noticed it this time on the singles circuit, perhaps as a consequence of being older: the number of them who have written “not sure yet” next to the question of whether they want to have children.
I laughed out loud the first time I saw this. Imagine the luxury of “not being sure yet” at age 45! Imagine going through life without having to think much or make a decision, because time was forever on your side…
It is one of the fundamental gender differences that remains, even as we continue the fight to break down stereotypes and challenge accepted and often limiting norms. Women are told from the beginning that we have an expiration date, a period of time in which to achieve life's most important purpose. Men are not.
If we do not reach the goal of motherhood within that period, we will be forced to face and accept this change of script head-on. “There was a time when he was so disruptive that he couldn't talk without crying,” bestselling author Elizabeth Day said of her fertility struggles in a recent interview with The times. “It was horrible.”
The 45-year-old, who also hosts the popular podcast. How to fail, was describing how she finally made peace with not having children, after a “heartbreaking” 12-year journey that included failed rounds of IVF, miscarriages, divorces, and constant disappointments. Having always imagined what her life would be like in the style of a Hallmark movie with perfect children, she began to imagine “other stories that exist in this ecosystem, where I'm actually an older mother and things don't go as planned. I found it helpful to think with constructive pessimism about what it would be like for us to have the baby, but for him not to feel what we wanted. I experimented with the idea of giving myself permission to not do any more fertility treatments. What would that feel like in my body? And it felt amazing.”
Day has gone from believing that her purpose on this planet is to be a mother to realizing that her most important purpose is to “speak for those who are not mothers or fathers, often not by choice.”
“That gives meaning to my life, and that's what I was worried about not having,” he added. “The fact that I can talk about it without crying shows me that I'm in the right place.”
The question of whether being a mother weighs heavily on many women
(Getty)
It's a feeling I can deeply relate to. I don't share Day's story: at 36 and with no known fertility issues so far, I'm not completely out of the running when it comes to motherhood, but I do know all too well the disturbing realization that the life one blinds I figured maybe it wouldn't have happened.
I always took it for granted that I would have children. Was it because she had always loved them? Had she thought about it maturely and responsibly and decided that having a family was a priority? Had I started to feel like my uterus was flipping every time I inhaled the fresh powdery scent of a baby's head? No. Virtually none of the above. Instead, I had accepted my future path based on the compelling argument that “it's what people did,” and in this sense I was largely right. My millennial friends and peers started putting them out from our mid-twenties onwards, and I didn't even consider a possible alternative. It seemed less like a choice than an inevitability.
It was only after my own long-term relationship resulted in a breakup rather than a walk to the altar that I was forced to question this long-held assumption, and whether motherhood was something I particularly wanted. “Are you running out of time!” popular culture shouted, from the “tick-tock, tick-tock” of the smug marrieds in The diaryof Bridget Jones to the big-city professional women in fancy suits in romantic comedies who were only truly happy once they returned to their small town to fall in love with a local blacksmith and have children.
I was constantly thinking about the question of 'to have a baby or not to have a baby', like a fertility-mad Hamlet.
I remember an older friend telling me, with a sense of urgency, that I should start proactively planning: freezing my eggs; She only dated men who were seriously ready for marriage and a family. She constantly thought about the question of “to have a baby or not to have a baby,” like a fertility-mad Hamlet. She colored the lens through which I viewed every facet of my life and relationships. So I went the other direction: I decided it wasn't for me, that I hated children and always had, that I loved my childless life and didn't want anything to change. Looking back, I now see that this was a way for me to feel in control of something I was clearly mastering. No in control – a means to quickly regain power. I was back in the driver's seat: take that, universe!
But my hard line on the subject caused the breakdown of the best relationship I had ever had. Once again, grief forced me to do the internal soul-searching that falls on women who struggle with the question of whether motherhood will be part of their story.
These days I have made the most difficult decision of all: accept uncertainty. There is no “destined” future. Nor can I live my life as if the decision were a guillotine hanging over my head. If I meet the right kind of person at the right time and everything works out physically, who knows? I could have children. If I don't do it, then I won't do it. But I'm strangely grateful for the limitations of being a woman that mean I've had to overcome my preconceived notions and rash retaliation to get to the place I am now. If the biological clock imperative often compels women to be more intentional in the way we shape our lives, it also compels us to make room for deep introspection and self-reflection. I truly believe that reaching a place of acceptance (that the myth society told me about how my life “should” be is simply not true) is one of the most liberating experiences a person can have.
I guess now I'm equally guilty of writing “not sure yet” next to the baby question. But, to me, that “I'm not sure yet” feels like a hard-earned badge of honor: proof that I've finally come out on the other side and given myself over to whatever the future holds. To you, universe.
