(Addendum from Sleep Deprived Brain: Clare calls it mourning sickness. As in 'Mourning for my Single, Carefree Life' sickness.)
"I would make a terrible mother anyway."
"I don't think you're in the right place right now to make those kind of judgmental indecisions about yourself."
"I would, though."
"Your word still doesn't make it true."
"Last I heard children are usually raised in clean, pretty houses with a white picket fence outside and a daily routine that is organised from the word 'Go'."
"What have you been listening to? The Stepford Radio Specials Circa 1951?"
"Firstly, there is no such thing. Secondly, I couldn't be bothered to cook, I think a clean house is life being wasted, I procrastinate like its a job to do just that and I am a firm advocate of the fact that all fairytales are based on some form of evidence that we just haven't discovered yet."
"Can I just say that if I was your brain, I would be so exhausted that I would want to give myself a lobotomy?"
"Don't say such things. We're in a hospital."
"We are in a fertility clinic and I really doubt that anyone in this place is equipped to give lobotomies."
"If you don't keep quiet and say something supportive in the next five minutes, I can assure you I will acquire the skills and demonstrate one when you least suspect it."
Silence could have only ensued for a total of five minutes before James turned to me and said huffily, "You have nice hair."
I stared at him confused.
"You SAID say something supportive!"
"In context to the present situation, James. Honestly how is this so hard for you?"
He got up huffily and for a second looked like he belonged inside a maternity ward with the rest of his cherub faced kind. "If you're going to be like that, I'm going to get coffee."
"Fine." I knew full well what coffee was code for and decided that for once I would leave him alone to smoke away his annoyances, which I still don't believe were truly justified in my case.
As he stomped away, I looked down at my hands contemplatively for a grand total of twenty minutes.
I learnt absolutely nothing from looking at them.
Well, nothing except for the fact that when I washed, I didn't entirely get the ink stains off the way that I should have. I could still see the greyish splotches highlighted on my skin like it was trying to define the many islands that made up the state of Hawaii.
Yes. I would definitely make a terrible mother.
Besides, what story would I tell the baby about his conception anyway? That his father happened to be gay and was just experimenting with a girl to figure out how different it was? Or that his parents were a chain smoking, almost misogynistic intellectual and a procrastinating, schizoid woman with an aptitude for psychosis and literature? Clearly, when they spoke about creating the super race, they completely alienated the obvious of what happened when they were brainy but had unwholesome habits like smoking and procrastination.
Darwin's theory for the win, indeed.
"Look, I don't know about you, but I actually want this baby."
I looked up in surprise to see James standing above me, still in a sulk, his hands jammed into his pristinely ironed jeans and a look of absolute terror at what he had just said in his blue eyes.
"First, accept the fact that I was right about your neurosis about the fact that you weren't actually homosexual."
"All right. Accepted."
"Good. But I still don't want to be a mother just yet."
He groaned and sat down next to me. "Look, I made it as well. I should get a say too."
"Oh, I do apologise for your arousal when you saw the poster of Brad Pitt on my wall. That must have been so difficult for you and your body to endure. It will probably take you months to recover from-"
"All right, all right. Enough with the sarcasm. I see your point."
We sat in silence for five minutes, a couple kids in our early twenties that had made the mistake of believing that we had our own sweet time growing up anyway and we had nothing at all to worry about. Momentarily, the smell of disinfectant and cafeteria food intensified as a door swung open with the well oiled efficiency of a clinically assigned commitment.
I sighed. It was amazing how often I agreed with my name like it was a word. I felt terribly missing at the moment too.