On Making Babies

It can be hard being single. I actually like my singlehood, truth be told, and am not one to sit and mope at home, letting waves of melancholy wash over me and plummet me into a vortex of despair. At least not often. Vortexes of despair are generally not good places to spend one’s life. The hard part about being single, then, is that virtually all of the people I know are or will one day be married, and as soon as they are, they lose all capacity for intelligent conversation with me. As soon as they cross over to the other side, the only thing worth talking about is why I’m not part of a pair as well. This is tedious, to put it mildly.

Take my grandmother, for instance. Whenever I call her, the second question she asks me is always “Have you met any nice young gentlemen lately?” I suspect she wants to ask that question first, but rules of etiquette dictate that she at least inquire how I am before getting to the real question. If I don’t have any updates on my love life, the conversation lasts about five minutes. It’s getting to the point where I am inventing tales of unrequited love so that I can talk to her.

I always thought “So why aren’t you dating” was the worst question I could be asked. It’s ubiquitous, intrusive, hinted at or asked outright by just about every person I know, be they family and friends or random strangers I meet on the metro. I had become resigned to it. Then one day last summer I learned that there is another question, which is far more obnoxious. I didn’t think that was possible. Oh, how naive I am.

I was walking back to work after lunch when I encountered a man from Sri Lanka who was looking for his bus stop. I know he was from Sri Lanka, because he told me so, twice. He fell into step beside me, and we chatted amicably for a while.

“I have a friend who is from Sri Lanka,” I said, trying to find something to talk about. “I hear it’s very beautiful. How long have you been here?”

“Three years. But I don’t like it. I’m going back soon.”

“Oh, OK. That’s nice. You must be very excited. Do you have family still in Sri Lanka?” I must interject that by ‘family’ I meant siblings or an uncle or something. Maybe a second cousin.

“Oh no,” he said, his grin widening. He looked me up and down. “I’m not married. You married?”

Crap.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“You’re too young to be married! How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“How long are you married? One year?”

“Um…yes. One year.”

“You have babies?”

“Nope, not yet.”

“Why not? It only takes one year!”

I think my chin dropped here. I always thought that was just a figure of speech, chins dropping.

“You like babies?” he pressed.

“I like babies.”

“You like babies?”

“I like babies!”

“Why you’re not making babies?”

I shrugged and walked on, a little faster. I tried to change the conversation, but suddenly he was nudging me with his elbow and gesturing across the street. There, in front of a café, was a woman with a stroller. “Babies are so nice, eh?” he said and winked at me. He then proceeded to point out every baby we passed on the street, extolling their virtues and praising motherhood to the skies.

“You like babies?”

“I like babies.”

“You like babies?”

“I LOVE babies.”

“Why you’re not making babies?”

I guess I perplexed him. By his calculation, I should have been on my second child at least. At this point, I was being as rude as I knew how to be, which unfortunately isn’t very rude at all, in an attempt to get rid of him and his prodding questions. We walked in silence for all of about five steps while he pondered the enigma of the baby-less woman beside him, until he came up with a possible explanation.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Your husband has problems?”

“No! No he does not!” I said. I was indignant.

It was a bit surreal, defending my imaginary husband’s prowess in bed to a complete stranger who was hell-bent on understanding my procreation procrastination. Yet from that moment I caught a glimpse of the questions to come. It never ends. I will never have a moment’s peace until I am a grandmother.