breathing room

Around the middle of May, I was struck by the rather surprising realization that I want marriage and a family. More accurately, I was struck by anxiety and something approaching panic when I juxtaposed that realization with my age: I’m 38, and was half-way convinced that I was already out of time.

Turns out I’ve got quite a bit more “reproductive breathing room” than I’d anticipated.

Something I like to do — some nights when I’m feeling particularly wired and am not ready for bed, even as the late night of one day slides into the early morning of the next — is research family history and genealogy. That’s how I finally pieced together my Jewish ancestry last year.

I was caught up in one of these genealogy marathon sessions three or four weeks ago and started looking more closely at the reproductive histories of my ancestors — specifically, how old these women were when marrying and giving birth, and how their children fared. What I uncovered was surprising.

I grew up hearing how my great-great-great-grandfather had had twenty-one children by two wives. His first wife had a single child before she died, and he’d remarried and had twenty children by his second wife. I was curious about the details. That second wife, my great-great-great-grandmother, had her first child at the age of 17, and her last at the not-so-tender age of 45.

45 years old! In the first half of the nineteenth century, no less. Seventeen of her twenty children survived to adulthood — two died at birth (or were stillborn), and another died in infancy. She did not die in childbirth but lived into her 60s. Her sons were the soldiers of the Civil War.

But I was more interested in her daughters. Some married early, some later, some not at all. Those who did become mothers themselves also bore children into their 30s and 40s, in the mid-1800s.

I’d no idea women at that time were giving birth so late in their lives. I’d assumed that was more of a modern trend, but apparently it was a regular practice in my family.

So I’m not so worried, not anymore. When my great-great-great-grandmother was my age, she still had another seven years of childbearing in front of her. This is the stock that I come from. If they could do it — and do it rather successfully — then so can I. If I get to be 41 or 42 and am still in the same boat as I’m in now — single, with no real prospects (I’d rather be childless than be a single parent) — then maybe I’ll give myself permission to get a little nervous.

In the meantime, I’m much more relaxed.

As a side note, I’ve only once had my “biological clock” go off. That was ten years ago. Out of nowhere, I felt suddenly driven to have a baby. It made no rational sense, but I started looking into artificial insemination — I wasn’t seeing anyone at the time — and costs of childcare. I was on the fast-track in IT, had a stable career and was making more than enough money to support a family, so I started making plans. I even told my boss about it, and he was very supportive. After about two weeks or so, however, the reproductive drive vanished into thin air. It hasn’t resurfaced since.