So, can we talk more about this?

It has been a minute, though that is not due to a lack of interest or desire to share what’s been on my mind, or how things are going here in France. To be totally transparent, I began writing what was intended to my next blog post two or so weeks ago. Titled “Settling In”, it went on to talk about the arrival of our air shipment and my very Utah looking wardrobe, while waxing about the elements of life that were feeling less heavy — being in a grocery shopping groove, growing more comfortable at run club, new friendships, aspects of my job that were feeling easier. All important things, worthy of documenting.

But, mother fucker. I was numbly typing, going on and on, growing more inauthentic and disingenuine with every click of my keyboard. And it’s not because I am not genuinely thrilled about our bed showing up and the gift that is drinking coffee out of my favorite mugs, or having lovely women fill my WhatsApp chats. I am over the moon about these things, really!

It’s just that I was ignoring the unforgiving weight of other matters that have made home in my mind.

How am I supposed to write about the facets of private school vs. public school when there are elephants stampeding through my frontal lobe, trumpeting on about whether or not motherhood is in my near or never future? Is it possible to talk about my newfound adoration for courgettes and teaching art as my days of “optimal fertility” come and go? Nevermind the fact that I am not even sure if I want to have a baby. I don’t even know! And it’s all I can think about.

“Well, if we think about trying in a year — okay, two years — and let’s say it takes a year [to get pregnant and stay pregnant], then by the time I give birth I would be how old?”

“And then what about my body? How does my 37, 38, 39 — my four decade old body respond?”

“But, we live in a 1-bedroom apartment in France. An ocean away from our family.”

“At least there is equitable healthcare and leave options here.”

“Those aren’t reasons to have a baby.”

“The planet is melting.”

“And how will I know? Really know? Where is my sign from the universe that says, ‘Yes, of course that’s what you want.’ How does anyone know?”

“Why am I already grieving something I haven’t lost and haven’t even tried to have?”

The elephants march on, turning the volume of my one-sided, silent dialogues up, accompanying my runs, disrupting my REM cycle, trunks singing along without a care. It’s a fucking relentless. It has been for nearly 2 years. And it — the internal and external conversations that are family planning — come with no warning, no manuals. No one is out there saying “Hey, listen. You may arrive at this point in your life. It’s going to feel really hard and intensely lonely. It might make you feel like a lousy woman, or worse, an annoying wife. You will feel like a bad mother without even being a mother. But, it’s okay and here’s what to do when you get there.”

No.

You know what people say?

“Well, you’re not getting any younger.”

“You’d be great parents!”

“When you know, you’ll know.”

“You’re never ready.”

“Oh, something just clicks. Wait until you turn 30, you’ll see.”

I’ve got news for you, 30 came and went.

“Did I feel any different? Wasn’t I supposed to feel different?”

“31. This is my year. I’ll know.”

“32. Okay, fine. I’ll finish my Master’s and then. Then!”

“Wait, we’re moving to France.”

And I really thought that my 33rd Summer would grace us with the opportunity of trying. We checked all of the boxes — money in savings, a home that required zero fixing up, a new car, new camper. There was a plan. I had been at my school long enough to ‘earn’ being pregnant. People knew me; they’d be happy! I’d be supported. I had been strategically banking my sick days for years, ensuring a cushioned maternity leave. I made a color-coded spreadsheet with optimal conception dates that considered the unique scheduling combination of a winter athlete and teacher. I was anchored to that God damned spreadsheet like seaweed to the ocean floor.

Was I ready? Were we ready? Did we know for sure? Maybe, maybe, maybe.

June came. We prepared for our move. We boarded our one-way flight on my thirty-third birthday. July. August. The summer months passed without an utterance of trying to have a baby. We were living in a hotel. We were in French classes. We were excited, overwhelmed. Nils started his job. I upped my milage. I ran and ran and ran. And I cried and cried and cried. I grieved the plans I thought we had. I mourned a pregnancy I never even tried to have. If that sounds like madness to you, I couldn’t agree more. It has felt like madness.

And now? Becoming a mother feels further than the Moon.

I’m in the best shape of my life. We live in France. There is all of Europe to explore. A language to learn. Friendships to foster. Careers to define. Snowboards to design. Contests to win. New versions of ourselves to get to know.

I am exhausted. These conversations have exhausted me. And I feel like I am the only one? Am I the only one? I can’t be.

So, can we talk more about this?

Perhaps it’s not as complicated as I have made it out to be. My rational self knows that I do have time; I was gifted this piece of mind after a series of exams which more or less ensured that I was healthy and with plenty of eggs. Though, my anxious self worries that I don’t have time. She fears that no amount of time will be enough time, not just to have a baby, but for everything.

I observe my friends with babies. I envy their bonds, their love, the fact that they have a child (or children) and no longer have to have this conversation with themselves and their partners. I love their little ones, and I love watching them flourish as parents. I admire what their bodies have done, the lives they have grown. I listen to those who know with unwavering certainty that they do not want to have children. I admire their conviction, their confidence in their choice, the quiet that must bring to their mind. I see pregnant women and feel immediate gratitude for my current freedoms, my decluttered apartment, my sleep schedule, my running habit. I look at photos of old friends who now have kiddos — full blown kids! — in dance classes and on bicycles and feel like I have already missed my window to join the Parenting Club. I think about my parents and in-laws, imagining their reactions to news they may have been waiting to hear. I’ve spent countless hours talking, and talking, and talking with Nils.

And the elephants stamp on.

I want to be present. I want to pay no mind to my blood-soaked tampons, the wiry gray hairs popping out of my middle part, or the global carbon emissions. The pressure of societal, scientific and self-imposed timelines make that the state of being present difficult.

I blame the passing of time for everything. It’s a thief, you know. 

Though I suppose the elephants aren't so blameless in this either.