Seeing a former classmate in the latter part of the second trimester of her pregnancy feels a little bit icky. Accuse me of being a bigot who holds on too tightly to the image of the past and whose idea of treachery is tampering with my memory of the good ol’ days when all the girls are flat-chested and the guys are shrill-voiced. These boys and girls, myself including, I reason, are too green to be parents.
Whenever I hear of a former classmate who got pregnant, has gotten somebody pregnant, or has gotten married too early, I feel being left out in the grand exodus of the people of my age from an age of carefree abandon to something mired with big and real responsibilities. Although I do not deny that I pity them a bit for letting go of this precious time when they’re supposed to think about running after their dreams and trying their luck. Being with somebody and being connected with that somebody by virtue of a marital vow or a child, accidental or intentional, can be rather tempting.
I cannot see myself being enmeshed in this difficult undertaking of having my own family anytime soon. I fear the entire endeavor, but I think of it almost all the time. If I follow my parents’ example, I would already have a child in his 20s by the time I reach my mid-forties.
How can I possibly support a child this time when I am hardly able to support myself and my lifestyle? Or are there people who are genetically more suitable to mate and bring up offspring, therefore ensuring the continuation of the species; and those, like me, who are meant to seek worldly pleasures and to allow the species to experiment on the limits of intellectual growth but are destined to be evolutionary dead-ends?