Single White Nerd: Procreation Nation
My Breakup Bookcase idea has wrought a certain amount of havoc, but that story will have to wait. It has to wait because our fearless leader, the inimitably fierce ‘n nerdy Ernessa, is in labor. Right now. As I type this. Life shall emanate forth from her loins.
That’s a big deal.
But there’s more. Within the next month, four other women of my acquaintance will engage in a similar effort—huffing, puffing, sweating and screaming as a wee little baby emerges to greet the world with a smile and a steady stream of bodily waste. Beautiful.
And that’s a big deal.
Lurking on the sidelines of these burgeoning miracles, I’ve observed these Women of My Acquaintance as the babies grow all big ‘n burly in their bellies. Some have become obsessed with their pregnancy. “Omigod, you guys, I am SO pregnant. I mean, seriously. I am PREG-NANT!” Others are soldiering on, taking each kick, each hormonal swing in stride. “I’m pregnant, what do you expect? It natural.” And still others seem vaguely traumatized by the whole situation. “I mean, I’ve always wanted a baby. But we’re so not ready for this. I mean. So. Not. Ready.”
I’ve used the plural above to anonymize my observations on the offchance that one or more of the lovely, talented and brilliant pregnant Women of My Acquaintance happen to read this post. Incurring the wrath of a pregnant woman would be a big deal. Not in a good way.
Anyway, all this procreation brings up a bit of a question. It’s a question that women have asked me. A question my mother has asked me. Heckfire, it’s even a question I’ve asked myself using the thinly veiled conceit of an imaginary girlfriend:
Does the Single White Nerd want children? Little myopic nerdlings running around, their neuroses and idiosyncrasies surrounding them like whirling dervishes of psychic dust. One shudders to think.
The honest answer is this: I dunno. Maybe. Kind of non-committal on the kids front.
I’m still figuring out this whole adulthood thing. I enjoy being able to sleep on the couch in a puddle of my own drool. Leaving the dishes in the sink for a few days. Going for a walk at 2 AM when the insomnia strikes and coming back to watch porn then wallowing in self-disgust because no one wants to be that sleepless guy (or gal) watching porn at 2 AM while drool crustifies on the sofa.
I enjoy all that. And I enjoy the possibility of picking up stakes and going for a ramble to Australia. Or Luxembourg. Africa. Brazil. Anywhere, really. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t so much gone to those places. The possibility is nice.
Then, on the other hand, I see my friends. Parents or soon-to-be-parents. Embarking on this great, ridiculous, terrifying adventure. Custodians of little helpless mounds of infant-flesh. I watch their faces light up as their children smile. Or learn to crawl. Spit up bile. The light of unconditional love and fulfillment.
I see that light and I think. . .well. Maybe.
Congrats and good luck to all the parents and expectings out there in nerdville. For the moment, I’ll leave the future in your capable hands. I’ve got dishes to sully, pillows to drool on and porn to watch.