From From the 20s

Playing Mom

From the Editors: In this essay, recent college graduate SJ Enloe reflects on how a 19-year age difference between her and her little brother causes her to think carefully about motherhood.

“Mom, can I have some chocolate milk?”

I stare at Isaac, who looks puzzled for a moment then giggles.

“Sarah, can I have some chocolate milk?” I nod and grab the Ovaltine.

“I called you mom,” he snickers.

It’s not uncommon for my brother to call me mom. After a few years of trying, my mom discovered she was pregnant a month shy of her 40th birthday. I was 18-years-old and just finishing my first year of college. My sister and I had no idea our mom and step-dad had been trying to have a baby, so her pregnancy came as a complete shock.

We tagged along for her 18-week ultrasound so the whole family could be there to find out his gender. Soon after, one of my aunts suggested that I throw my mom’s baby shower. I spent that summer driving around buying favors, decorations, and the like, all the while telling my mom I was going out with friends or just buying new clothes. I organized family members and friends to help out and surprise my mom, and it all came together perfectly.

My brother was born on November 14, 2012, a little more than a month after my 19th birthday. I was there to witness his birth (as much as I tried to look away) and cut his umbilical cord. I like to think it was that moment that my brother and I became inseparable.
Before my brother was born, I spent most of my time in my room, barely seeing my family – despite living under the same roof. Now I’m almost always playing with toy cars or sitting with him watching whichever Peanuts DVD is his favorite that week.

Though I sometimes find myself forgetting I’m not his parent, I also frequently forget my age. Playing board games and going along with the latest game he’s made up are my favorite past-times. Sometimes, if the TV has been left on, I’ll sit alone watching Curious George or Sesame Street.

We often look at toddlers crying over silly little things and laugh, but taking a little time to play along with my brother helps to show me that my problems are just as silly and laughable.

In those moments when I feel like I’m his mother, I contemplate whether or not I actually want to be a mother. My fiancé and I talk about it fairly often, and we’re both on the fence. Until the last few months, he’s never really wanted kids. For much of my life, I operated under the assumption that I was supposed to be a mother. I knew it was my choice, but became afraid to explore that choice. It’s a huge decision to make and there’s so much that goes into it, and I’m afraid of making the wrong choice. My brother, however, forces me to have that discussion with myself.

In moments when my brother is bratty and acting up, I immediately push the thought of motherhood from my mind. On several occasions I’ve texted my mom, “your son’s being a terror, and I’m never having children.” Then there are moments when we’re cuddled on the couch, and he’s being sweet as can be, giving lots of hugs and kisses and being much better behaved than usual, and I think “this isn’t so bad.”

I have some time before I make any decision on the subject, but I’m glad I have some first-hand experience in mothering to help me make a more informed decision. Until then I’ll continue making chocolate milk and playing mom.

Enloe headshotS.J. Enloe is a recent graduate of Westfield State University, who enjoys writing and walking into walls;  she can’t avoid it, so she’s learned to live with it. You can read more from her on her website or at The So-Called Right Track.


From the 20s: Gender Identity and Motherhood

From the editors: our readers in their 20s have let us know that even if they’re not yet “aging primates”, many of them are on the fence about motherhood. We’re thrilled to bring in writer and graduate student Alaina Leary for a new column exploring the perspective of 20-something fence sitters. 

I’ve been in a committed relationship for the past seven years. As if by miracle, my high school sweetheart and I stayed together throughout high school, throughout college and made it to the point where we’re new adults, living in our own apartment with two cats and a hamster.

I know that soon, we’ll be thinking about taking care of more than just pets. My sweetheart and I are both women, and we have to make complicated choices that go along with that. Will we adopt, and if so, from in this country or out of it? Will one of us conceive?

Is it insane for me to consider this question, when I’ve only just graduated with my Bachelor’s in May and am now pursuing a graduate degree in my field while working and interning?

I was about eight or nine years old when I first decided that I wanted to adopt kids. At the time, I hadn’t even thought about concepts like romance, sexuality or gender identity—all I knew was that I’d read the stories of many foster children, both true and fictional, and I wanted to be the person who could stop kids from being in that situation. I yearned to be an adoptive parent.

There’s one area on which we disagree: conception. I’m all for adoption, as I always have been, and she is too. But she wants one child of her own, and she hopes I might carry one too.

Even just a year ago, we still lived in the fantasy of college and actual adulthood seemed like a dream instead of a reality filled with difficult career decisions and piling bills. Now, the discussion of conception seems very real and that terrifies me. I’m on a continuous birth control for endometriosis, so there’s a heavy chance that I don’t have the option to consider giving birth even if I were to change my mind.

I’ve also always struggled with my gender, and the lucky side effect of my birth control is that I haven’t had a period in five straight years. Until I’m facing the kids question, I feel like I still have time to be confused and to ignore my gender identity. I’ve been an out bisexual to everyone I know practically since childhood, but only about two people in my social circle know how much I struggle with my gender identity: my girlfriend and my best friend. I don’t feel comfortable in a female body, but I also don’t want to socially and medically transition as a male, so I’m stuck in an awkward, painful in-between: skipping my periods and getting changed in the locker rooms quickly so I don’t have to dwell on the idea of body parts and what they mean.

Facing the kids question would change all that. Even if I stick with my gut and decide never to conceive, watching my future wife conceive will cement my gender identity in the minds of everyone around us. I’ll be her wife, and people will ask me—like they surprisingly already do—why I don’t want to carry any of our children too. People won’t see me as a biological mother, but they also won’t see me as our kids’ father, either. Gender and sex, which are abstract terms that I’m currently able to avoid, will be a daily discussion, just like they were when I first came out. Just today, one of my childhood best friends and I were talking about my future with my girlfriend: where we want to move, how our jobs are going, how school is. She asked me if we planned to have kids, and if we both wanted to carry one. I felt the panic rise in my chest as I answered her, “No, she’s the one who wants to have the kids.” When we people talk about male and female bodies, and what they do, and they gender those bodies, I get uncomfortable. I transform into the Drunk Aunt at a holiday party who ducks out of the room when everyone starts talking about my alcoholism in front of me.

Meanwhile, the cost of IVF, sperm donation and fertility treatments are always in the back of my mind as I consider my career decisions. Instead of thinking of just myself and what I want to do, I’m already thinking of my future family and the economic burden of being in a same-sex relationship. It’s like forward-thinking family planning, but with loads more pressure.

At age twenty-two, it seems silly to worry about something that’s at least five, more like ten, years down the road. As new adults, we’re figuring out our careers and finances. I’ve only just gotten approved for my first auto loan and my first apartment. I’m not even close to ready to settle on a mortgage. Kids are nowhere near in our future.

Still, we want them. Time goes by faster than we think it will. Seven years ago, when we started dating, I could never have foreseen our future as college graduates living on our own with two cats. It felt like a faraway fantasy—a time period that I dreamed about, but that would always remain looming and out of reach.

I know the decision about conception is coming faster than I think. As soon as I blink, I’ll be getting my first promotion, and so will she. When we’re nearing a more stable financial climate, we’ll be looking into permanent homes instead of apartments.

People around me are always warning me that my biological clock is ticking, and more and more of my age peers my age are having children.

I watch those people with envy from every social media platform. In the majority of cases, these are straight couples, one man and one woman, both who identify with their biological sex and assigned gender, smiling with a baby of either sex in their arms. They look so happy, and nothing is complicated. They conceived naturally, and the woman gave birth, and neither of them were torn apart on the inside because of their biology, all in the name of bringing life into this world.

Alaina FaceAlaina Leary is a Boston-area native who is currently a student in the master’s program in Publishing and Writing at her dream school, Emerson College. She’s currently working as an editor and social media coordinator for several brands and publications. Her work has been published in Cosmopolitan, Seventeen, Her Campus, BUST, AfterEllen, CollegeFashionista, The Odyssey, Luna Luna Magazine and more. She can often be found re-reading her favorite books, watching Gilmore Girls, and covering everything in glitter. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @alainaskeys

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