I Keep Getting Older and So Does My Pregnancy Cut-off

CalendarWhen I was in my idealistic 20s, I spent a lot of time painting a vivid picture of my early 30s. In it, I was a power move makin’ entrepreneur who ran thriving businesses, wrote successful books, and came home to a lovely house with a fine husband and a herd of adorable mini-mes (and maybe mini-hims too, if I let him slip a few genes past the goal line).

Yeah, having a hard time getting that vision to come together in real life, down to the procreation part.  

Originally, my cut-off for having more babies was 29. That was a full decade after I’d had my daughter. Then 29 came and went, but the desire to have another bambino stuck around. So I upped the age to 32. With that birthday breathing down my neck, I’m forced to push the deadline back to 35 and keep my fingers crossed. There’s no expiration date on the want, but there sure is one on the womb. I just need Mother Nature to give me a few more extensions. 

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How are the clock and the calendar both gonna work against me? Sheesh. I need something powerful at work over here on Team Lookin’ to Get Preggers.

I’ve heard horror stories about women bearing children past their 20s and early 30s and being susceptible to all kinds of pregnancy-related ailments that they didn’t or wouldn’t have had when they were younger. There’s a greater chance that a baby born to an older mama will have Down syndrome and other health issues. I’ve seen that big blankety blank needle nurses use to do amniocentesis on mothers-to-be in their mid-30s and up. Just looking at that bad boy makes my knees buckle. Knowing all of this makes me a little sad, quite discouraged, and very scared.

It’s especially nerve-wracking because I had a super easy time when I was toting around the fetus who would become Skylar. Easy pregnancy, easy labor — less than 25 minutes! — and easy delivery.

So T-minus three years until I’m officially smack dab in the middle of my 30s. It’s crunch time, ladies.

Theoretically, I could sidle up to my boyfriend and make a case for creating a little Lanelle (that’s the remix of Larry and Janelle — respect it even though I’m well aware that it’s not nearly as catchy as Brangelina or Bennifer). And if he shot me down, I could dump him like expired coupons and find a donor, since there are plenty of dudes running around here making babies and pulling the ol’ David Copperfield routine. But what’s worse: settling for less than the kid and I deserve or not having the kid at all?

I think it’s the latter, much as it pains me to admit it. Part of my desire to have more little ones comes from a chance to have a do-over from the last 12 years of being a single mother. Don’t get it twisted: if I never get married, if I never have more children, The Girl and I together will be a happy little family. We are whole just like we is (yes, is).

But I would be lying to y’all and more importantly, to myself, if I said I don’t want to know what it’s like to have a husband to share in the responsibilities and adventures and joys and frustrations and — Lord help me — wee hour morning feedings and diaper changes. I want that.

So I wait. And wait. And wait some more. And as soon as I get hitched, I’ll be ready to lay that man down and have my way with him for the reason that nature intended. But I need this process to move along. It’s not going according to my schedule at all, and it’s really starting to tick me off.

What is or was your pregnancy cut-off age?


Image via cinz/Flickr

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