I think I was eleven or twelve when I first heard the phrase “biological clock.” At the time I laughed at the absurd notion that some women felt a physical pull to have children, that their body might feel like it was urging them to get on with it before it’s too late. I’m not laughing anymore. I know that not all women experience this and I envy those that don’t just a little bit right now. It was barely audible when I was twenty-five but the ticking gets louder each year. Now, at thirty-three, I half expect others to comment on the volume, thankfully I seem to be the only one who notices.
I’ve heard that there is never a right time to have children and that may be true but sometimes are better than others. I know that living in a house that feels crowded and cramped with five adults living here does not need the added stress of me going nine months without my antidepressants and then everything that comes along with baby’s first year of life. It’s not a great time my head reminds me. My parenting will be put under a microscope even more than most moms because of my disability. So in an effort to make sure they have the best start I can manage short of being an able mother who doesn’t deal with depression, I wait.
I wait, even though I worry every day that I’ve waited too long. Even though my disability isn’t genetic the very fact that I have a disability makes any pregnancy high risk. Yesterday it occurred to me that miscarriages have happened on both sides on my family to women who are otherwise able and healthy. If it happened to them it could definitely happen to me.