I was scrolling through my phone this morning—sequestered in the bathroom for precisely three minutes of respite before the cacophony of the day officially kicked down the door—and I saw this image.
“To the women with no kids, take your time, and be careful who you have a baby with.”
And let me tell you, I didn’t just passively double-tap it. I wanted to frame it. I wanted to commission a skywriter to emblazon it across the stratosphere. I wanted to manipulate the laws of physics, travel back in time to visit 20-something Tina, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her until her teeth rattled.
Because, listen. I am 33 years old. I am a Leo (hear me roar, or rather, hear me yawn with theatrical exhaustion). I am a nurse who spends her shifts navigating the complexities of patient care, only to return home and attempt to triage the emotional needs of little people. And if there is one axiom I hold to be absolute in this life, it is this: The individual with whom you choose to procreate is the single most consequential career decision, financial decision, and psychological decision you will ever execute.
To my single friends, or my friends who are currently cohabitating with houseplants and fur-babies: Do not succumb to the pressure of the timeline.
I know, I know. The societal narrative is insidious. Your extended family is inquiring about when you plan to “settle down” with increasing frequency. Instagram is a curated gallery of beige nurseries and tranquil infants swaddled in organic bamboo, projecting an image of performative domesticity.
It is a facade. Okay, it’s not entirely a trap, but that beige nursery is swiftly decimated by bodily fluids, and that peaceful infant inevitably metamorphoses into a teenager who views your very existence as an embarrassing inconvenience.
Here is the unvarnished reality that is omitted from the holiday card: Parenting is arduous. It is a relentless war of attrition against your sleep, your patience, and your sanity. It is a 24/7 occupation with no PTO and a “destruction budget” that is perpetually in the red because your progeny have already dismantled everything of aesthetic value in your domicile.
Now, visualize attempting to manage that unmitigated chaos with a partner who exhibits the maturity of an unpaid intern you cannot terminate. Imagine navigating this with someone who operates under the delusion that “babysitting” applies to watching their own biological offspring. Imagine trying to maintain a household with someone whose conflict resolution skills are so rudimentary they create more unnecessary drama than a sweeps-week episode of reality television.
I have traversed that terrain. I possess the commemorative T-shirt, the emotional lacerations, and the ex-husband to substantiate it. I have co-parented through scenarios that would baffle a diplomat. I have been forced to occupy the moral high ground so frequently I practically suffer from altitude sickness. When you tether yourself to the wrong partner via a child, you are not merely bound for 18 years. You are inextricably linked for graduations, nuptials, potential grandchildren, and every excruciatingly awkward custodial exchange in between.
But here is the antithesis—and the motivation for penning this treatise while I consume my (regrettably lukewarm) Philz coffee and attempt to summon the fortitude to tackle the mountainous laundry pile.
When you wait—or when you receive a second opportunity to calibrate your life correctly—it alters the entire trajectory.
My husband, Mo, is currently traversing Japan. Yes, I am operating as a solo parent at this juncture. Yes, my fatigue is palpable. But the fundamental difference is this: I know his return is imminent. I know that when he is present, our partnership is symbiotic. We are in the trenches together, operating with equitable distribution of labor and emotional support.
We are currently navigating the labyrinthine journey of IVF, attempting to introduce one more soul to this eclectic mix. And let me elucidate: IVF is not for the faint of heart. It is a relentless cycle of injections, hormonal volatility, rigid calendars, and agonizing anticipation. It is emotionally depleting. However, undertaking this odyssey with a partner who validates your experience, who listens to your grievances, and who genuinely desires to share the burden makes the unbearable, bearable.
So, to the women who have yet to cross the threshold into motherhood:
Prioritize your autonomy.
Sleep in on Saturdays with zero guilt.
Allocate your financial resources toward frivolous luxuries that are not susceptible to juice box stains.
Travel to destinations where packing a diaper bag the size of a Honda Civic is not a prerequisite.
Date extensively. Be discerning. Be ruthlessly discerning.
Do not disregard the red flags simply because he possesses a symmetrical face or a stable income. Scrutinize how he interacts with service staff. Observe his mechanisms for handling stress. Analyze his reaction when you establish a boundary or say “no.” Because however he presents himself now? Amplify that behavior by a magnitude of a thousand when you are operating on a sleep deficit of three days and the toddler has a raging ear infection.
Take your time. Your life is your own sovereign territory. Protect your peace with militant ferocity. Protect your credit score. And for the love of all things holy, protect your womb until you identify a partner who is genuinely worthy of the title “Dad.”
As for me? I am going to finish this coffee, transmit a text to my husband in a disparately different time zone, and attempt to convince my children that cereal constitutes a gourmet culinary experience.
Love,
Tina
(The one who learned through the school of hard knocks, so you don’t have to.)