Plan A, Plan B

There comes a time when you have to rethink your life plan.  Maybe not give up on Plan A, just accept that you might need a Plan B.  And that your Plan B might happen.

I have been thinking a lot lately about my desire to have kids...or to not have kids.  As I speed toward the big 3-0, I at times feel the very real possibility that I will not be a mother.  To be honest, sometimes I wonder if I wouldn't be better off that way.  That's not to say that I'd be a terrible parent, but rather, that I could have a really great life as a non-parent.  I reflect regularly on this notion of parenthood, often at odd times: on the volleyball court, in the bathroom at school, in the middle of a movie about survival on Mars.  Most of the time, I think it's fear talking.  Sometimes I think I'm just balking at the possibility of never sleeping again.  Because I really love sleep, and after not sleeping for a while due to rats and neighborhood crime stories, I don't ever want to not sleep again.

Here's the way I see it:

I have approximately ten good years of child-bearing left.  Ten years ago, I thought for sure that I'd have kids by now, so I don't want to slough it off and say, "Eh, it'll come, the whole thing: love, marriage, babies, never sleeping again."  I have lived long enough to know that things don't usually turn out the way that you expect them to.  Wanting something doesn't make it happen.

Please don't mistake my foresight as regret.  I do not regret the way that my life has played out thus far.  When I was 19, I thought I was ready to have kids (though I'd wait until I graduated college, of course; I'm no drop-out).  I thought that I'd be married in my early twenties and have at least two kids by now.  Which is horrifying to me at the present moment.  I am currently sleeping on a mattress on the floor of my childhood bedroom because I'm too afraid to sleep at my own house.  Not that moms can't be scared.  I just can't imagine being wholly responsible for another human being.  I haven't gone grocery shopping in weeks, and my bedroom looks like this:

Recently, someone suggested that I get a dog for protection, and I assured them that though one might make me feel safer, I could not handle the responsibility (and dogs are hairy and gross sometimes...imagine my bedroom with a dog!).  I'm still amazed the potted plant in my kitchen hasn't died yet.

Being without children affords me a lot of possibilities I wouldn't otherwise have.  This summer, I can go to Quebec for three weeks and speak French and spend however much money I want because it's just me.  Next weekend, I can visit my brother and not worry about herding children on the plane.  I can leave my room a mess every single day (you've seen the proof) and not feel like a hypocrite.  I can write this post and then pass out next to my saltines, gatorade, and various partially-opened medicine boxes without a care in the world.

Do I want that forever?  Honestly, it seems a little lonely.  It's seems kind of wasteful, too, considering how badass of a mom I would be.  Still, I'd prefer to do things in a certain order, and getting knocked up by somebody I don't know well doesn't really seem like a wise long-term solution.  My first impressions of men aren't always great, and I've seen the way divorce can pan out.  I would like to do what I can to avoid putting my kid in that situation.  Choosing a partner I actually like and with whom I have similar values and parenting ideas seems like a good first step.  And if I can't do that in time to have kids, I guess I don't want to have kids.  Simple as that.

The natural response to this necessary sequence of events would seem to be a committed effort to finding a viable partner.  And I have tried.  I have tried traditional methods (college, hobbies, friends of friends).  I have tried untraditional methods (online dating).  I have even allowed myself to be set up on a date once or twice by someone who--it turns out--didn't actually know me that well.  Yesterday, I uninstalled Tinder from my phone because I'd had enough of it.  So, I'm kind of at a loss.

Earlier today, as I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, I found a TED talk by a woman who basically math-ed her way into marriage.  She created an algorithm and scoring method for online dating, and she found, to use a phrase I've come to despise, "Mr Right."  Now she's got a husband and a kid, and she's feeling pretty good about things.  But that won't work for me.  I'm not that detail-oriented, and I can't bring myself to sit down and map things out the way she did.  I wish I could, but that's not me.

However, like her, I'm trying to rethink my approach thus far.  Part of the problem is numbers--there just aren't that many men out there that I'm attracted to, that can hold an intelligent conversation, that have some Christian belief system, that aren't already married, and that like me back.  The other part of the problem is access--the men who might fit that description, where do I meet them?  As a jack of most trades and master of few, I have met a lot of people in my numerous and varied activities: improv, dancing, volleyball, writing, church, school, you name it.  Not a single one of those activities has produced anything resembling potential.  Tinder got me closest, but these days, the only people on Tinder are tourists, rednecks, and douchebags.  No thanks.

I'd like to say that I'm not worried about it.  To a certain extent, that's true.  I've sort of reconciled myself to the possibility that lack of sleep in my future might be a result of old age and not children, and I'm okay with that.  Looking at the flip side, I'm extremely grateful not to be a 29-year-old mother.  There's nothing wrong with 29-year-old mothers; I just don't want to be one (and physically can't, unless I get pregnant tomorrow and my child miraculously grows four times as fast as the average human baby...thirty is right around the corner, after all).

I think the key moving forward is being open and grateful.  Open to possibilities that might arise, and grateful for the place I'm in now.  Things might not have worked out the way I thought they would when I graduated from college, or even two years ago, but they're good, and I'm happy.  I've got a great job, wonderful friends and family, fun things to do, and a firm sense of self.  What more could I ask for?