You know the scene in She’s Having a Baby when “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush is playing? Jake is thinking back on his and Kristy’s life together and how great it was, just the two of them, and intermixed are scenes of Kristy’s troubled labor. I always cry at that scene. Not because I fear what’s going to happen to Kristy. Not because that’s a particularly gorgeous song. And not because I’m a sucker for John Hughes movies. It’s because I liked Jake and Kristy’s life pre-child. Why couldn’t they just be happy being suburban yuppies? Also … I fear having children, and that scene always reminds me of my doubts and fears of reproduction, birth, child-rearing, and letting go of all those wonderful times when it was just the two of us.
Now, in the dawn of my thirties, it’s like “This Woman’s Work” is perpetually playing in my head. Every day is a montage of people getting pregnant, having babies, and wondering when I’m going to join their club. Sure, it turned out great for Jake and Kristy, that was a John Hughes film. But what about me? Is there a great story where my husband and I decide to have a child and it’s all strollers and diapers and bliss? Am I having a baby?
This confusion and conflict started a few years ago when my best friend invited me and our other best friend to her house to celebrate her pending nuptials. She got us drunk on expensive champagne and tried to make us swear to all have babies at the same time. “Babies are great, 2008!” she chanted. (She’s an ex-cheerleader and involved in rallying for pro-choice, so chanting came naturally to her.) I instantly sobered up and rebuffed her advances to force my (then) un-wed ass into motherhood. Though we politely turned her down, my ambitious best friend stuck to her guns and precisely one year after she was married, she had a little girl. I couldn’t have been happier for her. But then, all of a sudden, there were pregnant people everywhere. It was Attack of the Mothers-to-Be.




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