If you’ve ever spent even five minutes with me at any point in my 32 years, you know how obsessed I am with babies. As a preschooler, I would hold babies while sitting in my carseat and I started babysitting when I was only 10. I once picked up elastic-topped jeans by accident so excited by the technology not even knowing what maternity jeans were but my soul did. I came out of the womb this way. I love babies, I want babies. Sometimes, I am a baby. It is all fine by me.
Every so often, as everyone is pairing off and I’m singing songs to my cat about how much I love her, I will think about the prospect of never knowing what it feels like to be pregnant and it makes me break down. (Then my cat walks away because she has no time for my drama.) There is no part of me that thought I would be 32, single, and childless and while I do my best to distract myself, the gravity of that is unavoidable.