Updated: Aug 26, 2019
I found myself daydreaming about when I would become a mother, knowing in my heart of hearts that I could not let another year go by without at least making the attempt to procreate. The constant ache of each month passing, another menses gone by without my precious baby conceived was becoming too much to bear and I found myself slowly sinking into depression. The year was 2015 and I was living and working in New York City ten years after the fact, grinding hour after hour, as was commonly expected in a metropolis so vibrant, to earn my daily bread. The work culture in New York is one that exacts hours of time expended on work activity, to the point where you begin to brag about how many hours you have spent laboring at your desk or in the field over happy hour drinks, so that by the third or so, you are possibly making out with a total stranger at a fancy bar in midtown.
By this time, it dawned on me that I had been working on my career for so long, that I had no partner to speak of, no prince charming to save me, but rather, a set of 'dates' that I would go on with men whom I felt comfortable enough with to share my boudoir for a late night make out session, on the off chance I could sleep in the next morning. One such date was an older gentleman, ( à la Carrie Bradshaw Mr. Big), who by New York standards was highly impressive, with good looks, a responsible career, a couple homes and an Amex card, which sent me reeling each time he proffered it to a waitress who presented a bill.
The chemistry was inarguably quite hot and one day it hit me like lightning. I could chose who would sir my child. This small shift in mindset is what made all the difference in my perspective on becoming pregnant. And in becoming a parent...
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