A clock that never sleeps

It’s getting harder each day to reconcile different aspects of myself with each other — like my feminist self with my biological clock. I cannot explain to you where this yearning for babies comes from — I don’t fully understand it myself. I mean, I know zilch about the intimate details of childbirth but I am fully aware of the ridiculous amounts of pain a woman suffers (Thanks for that, pop culture). I also don’t think my body and brain are in conjunction with each other about the act of pushing another human being (albeit a tiny one) out of any part of me. But in between the head and heart that normal people battle with — I have a new foe to contend with: my uterus.

 To be twenty-something and wanting babies in this day and age is more embarrassing than being 18 and wanting to get married. Especially if you have rolled your eyes at friends who entered into arranged marriages and now are happy being homemakers.

 Blessed are you young women who don’t want children. You won’t have to worry about a career you’ve planned coming in the way of a biological clock whose ticking grows louder with each passing year of your twenties. It started with the faintest of ticks that I noticed only while cradling an aunt’s newborn, but it has now grown persistent every time I see a little one. I can go through baby photos without much heartache but when a baby occasionally smiles at me in a mall, or when I see knitted baby booties online, my uterus skips a beat.

 The worst part is the inability to decide how this fits in with my feminist ideals. I want a career, a job I love; but I don’t really want to get married any time soon. But as much as I want to break some glass ceilings, I also want a baby. I have a vague feeling I will regret this one when I’m sleep-deprived, trying to rock a wailing baby to sleep at 3 a.m.

 The worst part is that I can’t even talk about this to anyone.

Friends look at me accusingly every time I sweet-talk a random baby on the street. They are aware of my obsession with babies, but how do I admit to them that I want one of my own? They’ll think I’m crazy to throw my life away so young. Talking to my mother will only intensify her groom hunt, which I certainly don’t want to encourage.

There is no middle path. No one I can share this deadly secret with. I can only hope I find a way to push this feeling to a corner of my brain until I’m 30 and block out the persistent tick-tock until then.