Ever since I moved home in January, my father has patted an invisible bundle of joy on his shoulder and looked to me plaintively. My mother has repeatedly made known her desire to be a grandmother. At a funeral I attended yesterday, my fellow congregants exhorted me to create some “happy news” this summer—an engagement would suffice, but what they really wanted was a little babyleh. The mazel tov’s would ring from the hillsides. My guess is that it all comes down to bragging rights. Most of the folks in my parents’ set don’t have a whole lot to talk about now that their kids have ended their schooling and gone on to become boring adults. With no school-related achievements and accomplishments to laud, life events have become the new frontier. And if your kids are staying stubbornly single and barren, you lose.
But I still don’t really get the frequent hints and near-demands. I’m barely into my twenties and have yet to land a secure, benefits-providing job. Heck, I’m still moving cross-country at the rate of least twice per year. My baby would be raised in abject poverty and insecurity. Is that really what they want?
I’m clearly of fertile stock—there are four kids in my family—and I’m more than willing to pop ‘em out. It will happen, dear parents. Just give me some time to lay away enough capital to keep the tot clothed, fed and in clean diapers.
Oh dear...stay strong.
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