My boyfriend’s mother told me, the other day, that survival swim lessons for babies- the ones that teach them to roll onto their backs and lie in the water, face to the sky, until someone comes and plops them out of the pool- are so effective because babies can relax. “We would all float forever,” she said, “but adults can’t just relax, we all move our legs or arms a little.”
There’s a metaphor there, so obvious it probably isn’t a metaphor at all. But I didn’t tell you that because I think you should relax, I told you because I thought it was an interesting tidbit and because today I am writing about babies.
I was not sure whether or not I wanted children, there is a fulfilling life for me with or without them. I told myself, years ago, that I would table the issue until I turned 31. Tomorrow’s problem! It wasn’t altogether avoidant, 31 seemed like a good age to start considering having a child, and old enough that a sufficient number of friends would have children, enough time to see parts of the world and decide what I wanted.
And then, on January 28 of 2022 I turned 31 and I realized that I desperately want to be a mom.
I’ll tell you all a secret, I’ve only ever told a few of my very best friends this. It will not seem like a very big secret to you.