32 is my magical childbearing age. I can feel it in my bones uterus.

Why 32? Because like mother, like daughter.

No, my mom didn’t have me when she was 32. She had me when she was 27, just before turning 28.

But my parents had been trying to get pregnant for about a year before I was conceived. Ask any couple who’s been trying to conceive for a year. I bet they’ll tell you it was the longest year of their life.

But the strongest driving force behind the age of 32 is the knowledge that my mom began menopause around age 37.


I’m almost 31. 37 is just around the corner.

And although the prospect of a cramp-free existence is exhilirating, the idea of not being able to have a child terrifies me.

So 32 is my age. At 32, married or not, I’ll be putting my savings towards the turkey baster method. Or I’ll just become a turbo-slut until I’m pregnant.

I haven’t decided which route to take yet. I’m leaning towards the disease-free-turkey-baster route.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “What are these pants you speak of?—Inurbase

Scariest Comment From Last Post: Peg-o-Leg’s comment, which you can read here.

About thoughtsappear

I eat lots of sugar. It's the only way to keep up with my new baby and to outrun zombies. View all posts by thoughtsappear

53 responses to “32

Leave a Reply...or a Pop-Tart.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: