MOMMY DEAREST

I should begin by admitting that this piece would read very differently if I were not thirty, single, and child-free. I'm obsessed, you see, and it's not about the lack of a soul mate, but rather, the absence of a teeny little playmate. I'm virtually a cliche-ohhh, her biological time clock is in overdrive, buyer beware! afraid I'll miss the boat.

The steady tick tock of my internal metronome instills the fear, rather than the Mystiqueen sense of opression it created for ye olde second waver. Wanting a baby is no longer considered a violation of feminist doctrine, but a show of feminist pride. Plus, the wonders of science have turned pregnancy into a booming business, giving my generation of mama-bes choices galore. All of this has got me thinking- about how far the notion of motherhood has come in the last century, about my dear mom, and of course, my own situation: when I will(or will I) be jumping on the baby bandwagon.

It's only recently that I have been able ro appreciate the pride my mother has in her lifework of being my mom. I'm facinated by how she managed to do it. My mother didn't have it easy, and yet, she made it feel effortless. We speak everyday and it's always the same conversation: ang, when you gonna have a baby? It's her thing, what can I do? She's my mom and she worries about me.

I regret any and every harsh word I've had with her, of course, that's kind of thing that comes with maturity. With looking forward, with wanting my own babies. I wonder what will be: Will I have children, will she be alive to see it? Every moment I have with my mom is precious to me, she's my mommie dearest, the woman I am closet to in body, mind, and heart. She is the woman I owe my life to, and who I will spend the rest of my life keeping safe and protected, as she once kept me. She is my number one gal.