As someone who has now been married longer than I attended university, but has as yet failed to produce children—or more accurately, grandchildren, of either the “great” or “regular” variety—I find myself frequently on the receiving end of childbearing wisdom. I’ve heard rhapsodies about the transcendent splendor of parenthood, how manufacturing a tiny human capable of stuffing hunks of saliva-damp banana into your disc drive catapults you to personal fulfillment. I’ve heard how my hesitation to do so belies an inherent streak of selfishness in my character. I’ve even heard that failure to give birth by age 30 has been linked to a higher likelihood of developing certain cancers. (As of this writing, I’ve got about six weeks to deliver.)
But now, apparently, even my marriage may be threatened by my joyless, selfish, cancerous reluctance to let my husband fill me up with his little babies.
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