The only person who hasn't mentioned my getting knocked-up is my dentist. He has a large photograph of his beautiful kids in the office. They all have sparkling grins. Maybe he doesn't like them?
The reason it's taken me so long to decide is because there were many years when I wanted to minimize my imprint on the world's surface. Any sufferer of depression or psychosis knows what I mean. Even after I got stabilized, I didn't exactly embrace life.
But then I read a novel by John Galsworthy in which a character, Old Jolyon, passes away right as he's appreciating the beauty of the world around him. The grass, the trees, his dog at his feet, the promise of spring ... and then he dies.
Old Jolyon was so real to me, I was undone by his death. But it woke me up to how lucky I am. Whenever I see anything beautiful and unspoiled now, I sigh for Old Jolyon and wish he were here to see it too. Galsworthy gave me an appreciation of the idea that life is short--and experience is vital.
If I follow that logic, I'd be missing an incredible human experience by not getting pregnant and giving birth--not to mention the breast-feeding and the development of a mewling pink mini me.
Most important, for someone who once wanted to die, giving birth is the ultimate cosmic revenge.
Unfortunately, I just don't think I'm ready. Yet if I wait, it might be too late for things to happen easily. It doesn't seem fair.
One thing's for sure: If and when I do get pregnant, I'm wearing some seriously sexy maternity clothes. That way if I do run into Thomas, there won't be any confusion.