I just got home from the gym, which is impressive when I take a moment to reflect on my morning. I spent it in bed, predicting Stellar candlesticks on Poloniex, drinking the percolated excuse of a drink from my roommate’s leftover coffee grounds (the last two weeks I’ve eaten meat and had coffee! first time in at least a year for either. deep end, here I come!), and wondering if it was too early to pick up where I left off on Game of Thrones.
We have a projector that projects a 6 ft by 10 ft screen onto the wall opposite our bed. It’s destroyed our motivation for life, assuming there is a life outside this warm nest we’ve built with second-hand blankets and $80 pillows. We got it last spring. Not upset.
Last spring was also the time that I read Alisa Vitti’s book WomanCode and self-diagnosed myself with PCOS, after also learning that nearly every woman in my family also has it. First off–what the fuck, family, why didn’t anyone tell me that having children is historically difficult on my mom’s side, or that everyone has irregular, painful periods and battles facial hair? In my family, hot waxing and fertility drugs are the norm. But we also live forever. Grandma is 91 and nobody is panicking. Worth it?
But lately, Tyler and I are resigning ourselves to a different fate, with mixed excitement for the possibilities. Or at least accepting that some things are just out of our immediate control (read: we’re (ok, I’m) not paying for fertility meds just to pop out shitheads that will cost us our freedom). Maybe kids just aren’t going to happen. And that is ok.
We think about all the things we’d be able to do without kids, like spend money on whateverthefuck we want, live like we’re in our 20s forever, and never save for someone else’s medical expenses or inflated college tuition (although, I’ve already put my foot down on this. paying for school is obsolete and I refuse to contribute to the shitshow that is traditional education.).
I assume I’d love my own kids, but if the way I feel about other people’s kids is any indication of my future temperament as a mother, there’s a good chance I won’t be very nurturing. Squish, Squash, and Gataki are hard enough to take care of and since I put them on an automatic feeder the second I got them, they require nothing of me. We live in symbiosis and it’s beautiful.
Sometimes I wonder if this is one of the reasons my mother-in-law isn’t my number one fan. I can barely scoop cat shit before the floor becomes the new litter box and I refuse to feed them anything above what you find in 50-pound bags at Costco. My hair things are their toys. Everything else is a marketing gimmick I refuse to buy into (except those toilet trainers which, in my experience, don’t work, but I have faith that they totally could). Kind of like kids and all the shit they require. My sister-in-law just had a baby and I swear their 9-month old owns more shit than I do.
Oh my god, why am I so upset about this right now? Misdirected rage. I knew there was a fire burning inside me. I thought I’d worked it off at the gym though. My ass is so sore, guys. Squats. They’re good for my bum knee. And my ass.
There was a time in my early or mid-20s when I really wanted a baby. Looking back, I think what I really wanted was a sense of normalcy and stability–not that a baby in your early 20s brings that because it fucking doesn’t, judging by all my super unhappy Facebook friends (read: loose acquaintances from my past whom I stalk but don’t actually talk to) pretending to be happy, but that’s what it symbolized at the time. I look at that younger, desperate version of myself and wonder what the fuck kind of logic did I use to come to the decision that I wanted a kid? Thank God for PCOS? Or being single at the time.
I turn 30 this year and I feel like the fact that I am 2 years married with no kids makes me a special kind of winner in life. Not having kids is fantastic. My parents had 2 kids at my age and from the pictures, they looked exhausted and on the brink of divorce. Which they were. See? Winning.
Last night I tied my hair in a bun on the tippy top of my head and most of it stayed put. It made it easier to prop my head against the headboard and watch GoT late into the night. I share this only to ensure that I highlight the highlight of my week thus far. Normally, I would have cut it all off by now. But 2018 Ashley doesn’t make impulsive and self-sabotaging decisions like cutting her hair or having babies.