Stop Telling Me I’m Running Out Of Time To Have Children

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Abstract

egin a family.</p><p id="3d2b">Now, at 31, I’ve officially hit the age where I am warned by well-meaning folks that I’m, “Running out of time.”</p><p id="7f7c">Perhaps if your words of encouragement are the same you use on someone with a terminal disease, you should rethink your method of giving comfort. Also don’t say that to terminally ill people. Actually don’t say it to anyone! Except for friends who are very close to missing the deadline on tax day.</p><p id="0ea4">I love kids. Those squishy cheeks and old person faces. The wobbling around like drunk college kids as they learn how to use their legs. And of course the serious little expressions on their faces when they try to make you understand why something that seems insignificant is VERY IMPORTANT so please stop laughing.</p><p id="e347">I’ve taught kids for years and, mostly, loved it. But I’m not ready to have my own.</p><p id="400a">Friends who are moms and in a seriously committed relationships lament, “Oh Kyrie, you’re not getting any younger! Those eggs are slipping away!” Not that they are wrong. If my body were a diner then in a not super distant time I would have to 86 the egg dishes, if you catch my drift.</p><p id="be70">But even if my eggs are gone, the chance to have a baby is not.</p><p id="608a">Passing on my own

Options

DNA has never been driving force behind my desire to have kids. In fact it might be a blessing on the world and the kid who’d get stuck with the genes for anxiety and a potato shaped head.</p><p id="98d8">Jokes aside there will always be children, for various reasons, in need of a safe home with a loving, and slightly anxious, mother.</p><p id="677e">So hopefully one day certain people will stop treating me like a vegetable that is about to go bad. You can take the eggs out of the mother, but not the determination to nurture.</p><p id="aed5"><b>Thanks for reading! Check out more I stories by me in Fearless She Wrote below:</b></p><div id="6a3c" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/i-wear-lipstick-even-though-my-boyfriend-hates-it-c0053b00964"> <div> <div> <h2>I Wear Lipstick Even Though My Boyfriend Hates It</h2> <div><h3>Beauty may be on the inside but I need to look confident on the outside</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*vO46JgQlXEwoMSvELH9koQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

I’m a woman not an egg factory

When I was 18 I believed I would have a daughter with my at-the-time boyfriend. She’d have my raven hair and his blue eyes and somehow be beautiful despite her somewhat plain parents. I’d even thought of a name. It was dumb, but I was as in love with it as I was the fantasy of being a mom and having a perfect domestic life, full of love and support.

However the relationship didn’t pan out. I know, so surprising. Since when do high school sweethearts breakup?

So I put my dreams of being a mom aside as I focused on school. I didn’t have to worry about children, I was too busy trying not to fail classes. Not to mention I didn’t have many romantic prospects at the time. Heck, there weren’t even unromantic options. In my mind it took two to make a baby. Or, more specifically, to begin a family.

Now, at 31, I’ve officially hit the age where I am warned by well-meaning folks that I’m, “Running out of time.”

Perhaps if your words of encouragement are the same you use on someone with a terminal disease, you should rethink your method of giving comfort. Also don’t say that to terminally ill people. Actually don’t say it to anyone! Except for friends who are very close to missing the deadline on tax day.

I love kids. Those squishy cheeks and old person faces. The wobbling around like drunk college kids as they learn how to use their legs. And of course the serious little expressions on their faces when they try to make you understand why something that seems insignificant is VERY IMPORTANT so please stop laughing.

I’ve taught kids for years and, mostly, loved it. But I’m not ready to have my own.

Friends who are moms and in a seriously committed relationships lament, “Oh Kyrie, you’re not getting any younger! Those eggs are slipping away!” Not that they are wrong. If my body were a diner then in a not super distant time I would have to 86 the egg dishes, if you catch my drift.

But even if my eggs are gone, the chance to have a baby is not.

Passing on my own DNA has never been driving force behind my desire to have kids. In fact it might be a blessing on the world and the kid who’d get stuck with the genes for anxiety and a potato shaped head.

Jokes aside there will always be children, for various reasons, in need of a safe home with a loving, and slightly anxious, mother.

So hopefully one day certain people will stop treating me like a vegetable that is about to go bad. You can take the eggs out of the mother, but not the determination to nurture.

Thanks for reading! Check out more I stories by me in Fearless She Wrote below: