Everyone keeps asking when I’m going to push munchkins out of my lady parts.
I apologize to the people who may have found the above sentence offensive. Let me rephrase…
Everyone keeps asking when I’m going to push mini Danny Devito’s out of my va-jay-jay.
Everyone keeps asking when I’m going to mix my egg with my husband’s sperm and make a super baby.
Everyone keeps asking when my vagina will be ripped open by a tiny, whiny person.
My point is that folks around me have gotten quite comfortable with bombarding the inevitable question “Are you going to have kids now?” and “What’s next?” My response is usually “When I’m good and ready, fool!” and “Keep being awesome.”
I suppose it’s a fair enough question. We as a society are bred to always be thinking about the future. The stereotypical American dream includes a successful career, single family home, spouse, and kids. It’s practically imbedded in our brains since youth that that’s the “norm.” As I think back to all the television shows and movies I watched as I was growing up the families always had at least 2 children, usually 3 (there apparently always had to be awkward middle child drama). Oh yeah, and there was always a dog. It’s like when they film family movies the director is all “And don’t forget a fucking dog! This is an American family, not a communist army!”
So it’s not that I don’t understand why everyone around me suddenly cares so much about my mating plans. I do the same thing to be honest. When one of my friends gets married I soon wonder when they’ll start their brood. It seems to be the next chronological step. However I keep those wonders to myself because quite frankly, asking someone about that private matter is rude. If they’re forthcoming about that information, more power to them. But I think most females want to keep the secret of “trying” between them and their future baby daddy. It’s a sensitive subject to some and although I love pushing boundaries and dancing on the line of inappropriate, it could be upsetting to certain individuals. For all we know the women we are prying about could have been trying for two years and making fun of them and saying things like “Hope it happens before your ovaries shrivel up” could truly ruin their day. I am not about ruining anybody’s day unless it’s Ronald McDonald because he’s terrifying.
I may want my very own evil mini-me’s two years from now, five years from now, or maybe never. The beautiful thing about keeping my future plans secret is that it’s something I can share with my husband. I reveal many of my thoughts, opinions, and ridiculous situations with the public so it’s nice to keep the intimate details of future children between us.
Right now I’m happy living in the moment. I’m in that obnoxious YOLO mode where I don’t know if tomorrow I’ll be jumping out of a tree or giving the president a lap dance. So FYI to those of you who will continue asking “When will I hear the pitter patter of little feet?” I will probably respond with something like “When I put on tap shoes and dance on your face, you bastard.” Just kidding. I won’t say that. What I will do is roll my eyes and refer you to this blog post.