An Intro. From My Current Ovaries. And A Past Self.

 

32. At this point, my ovaries are supposed to be talkin’ to me. Or so I’m told. And not in a whisper. In the voice of the dude who just slid your pipin’ hot margarita slice across the counter at a crowded Joe’s Pizza in The Village at 2:50 AM. Loud and with authority. Hoarse from yelling above the drunken voices. Which, in the case of my ovaries, is mine.

 

The ovaries, they’re mature now. But I’m not. With each year that passes, I wonder, will I ever be? Ready for that? Who the fuck knows.

 

Some recent enlightenment tells me that I hope so. A revelation from a woman who stares at babies in strollers. Daring her insides to feel something. 

 

I’ve been told a cave is no place to raise a child.

…

 

22. I still remember what I was wearing. Mint slingback patent leather heels. A black BCBG skirt I had just scored at an uptown Marshalls, one that gave my body the shape of an ornate perfume bottle I couldn’t yet afford. Standing in the middle of Grand Central. Looking up at that majestic ceiling. Just two months into living in the city. 

 

It was one of those moments you snapshot in your mind, somehow clairvoyant of its impact. 

 

The current post: Reporting for internship duty at a glossy Conde Nast magazine. 

Today’s mission: A visit to Carolina Herrera's personal address to deliver this month’s edition of Vanity Fair. 

 

Well, could you think of a thing more important?! 

 

As I felt the weight of the magazines resting on my hip, gazing starry-eyed up at a ceiling of painted constellations, I was acutely aware that I had made a choice. 

 

Some choose babies to be held on their hip. 

I chose magazines. And New York. 

Discovering who the hell I was. And who I wanted to become.

 

A modern middle finger to a tradition old as time.

 

A moment of clarity amidst the frenetic energy. For now.

New York is funny that way.

 

Stage 1. A Meditation.

 

24. Living in the UWS, aka Pleasantville for new money, yuppie families. The brand that glows with the hope of possibility and of hedge fund money. A coke-feigned fairytale.  A Pleasantville for them and a minefield for me, as I dodged strollers like I was in a lifesize game of Frogger on my Struts of “Shame” on a Sunday morning. Hungover. Hazy. Happy. I was doing exactly what I wanted in my 20s. The opposite of whatever the hell that stroller stuff was.

 

As a stroller dodger of Olympian degree, historically I’ve used condoms like I take ACV and vitamins. With the dedicated fervor and enthusiasm usually reserved for “things that feel good”.

 

I’ve now entered a new decade and have to face the harsh realities of both time and science. Dig deep and figure out what a want for my future. A future that used to feel comfortably far, far away. 

 

So I’ve begun a shift. To think differently. And occasionally act differently. The law of nature, I suppose. Working to create habits that will help me to become my #bestself. 

 

In case I were to get hit by a stroller someday.

 

One of those shiny new habits is meditating. And by meditating, I mean listening to a YouTube video for 10 minutes, eyes closed, trying to breathe in peace. A feeble attempt at zen. 

 

The kind that can only be attained from an app.

 

This particular video happens to come with nature sounds. Which are, bizarrely helpful. I sit on the little furry IKEA rug in my meticulously designed tiny studio apartment in the LES of Manhattan and close my eyes, picturing myself as a young girl. Around the age of 10. Sitting in a field, with the more than occasional sirens and angry voices from Allen Street competing with the soft coo of birds and the flutters of butterfly wings bringing the promise of serenity. 

 

The kind that can only be attained from the suburbs.

 

The kind of serenity I hope to never experience.

 

In the way that many people talk to their loved ones that no longer inhabit the Earth, I counsel with my 10-year-old self. Because I’ve come to the conclusion that she is the wiser of us both. She simplifies things. Kids do have a kind of Buddha quality about them. Which, I’m writing down now, is a reason to have them. 

 

I look at her. With her naturally curly hair in a ponytail positioned right in the middle at the back of her head. The most practical of styles. The same hair that is now chemically straightened, but then curled if it’s worn down. A confusing equation 10-year-old Allie just wouldn’t understand because it defies any kind of logic. 

 

I look at that sweet girl. I want the world for her. And she would want that for herself. 

 

Why not? It’s only logical. 

 

To a 10-year-old brain.

 

The other day during a particularly illuminating meditation sesh, I came to the realization that I wanted more for that little girl than I did for myself. 

 

And it rocked me.

 

Stage 2. Doubt. And More Doubt.

 

Recently enlightened, I’ve started weighing decisions based on if they would make my future child proud. So maybe that means I’m one step closer? Just dippin’ a toe into the parental thought process. Or what I can only assume that to be. 

 

I must be amazing before I bring another human into the world. It’s non-negotiable. 

Nobody puts pressure on Mommy like Mommy puts on herself.

 

I want a kid to boast “my Mom stood up for what she believed in and look what she created!”

 

“Well, currently Mommy doesn’t even have enough confidence to go up to that cute guy at the bar. How am I ever going to have a Daddy?”

 

Even my non-existent unborn fetus has more wisdom than I do at the moment. And yes, I’m aware the phrase “unborn fetus” is very controversial these days. Imagine if they learned that the unborn can speak!

 

Well, my unborn, non-conceived little angel (but just know I’ll never call you an “angel”, because that’s a lot to live up to and Mommy would never label you before you could label yourself - that’s right, no “little princess” shirts for you… unless, of course, it’s an “I Heart NY” onesie), just know I will always do my best. And if it’s not enough, we’re fucked. And it’ll affect the rest of your precious life.

 

My Dad recently told me during a visit that they should have an app like the one that measures how many steps you take, for how many times you think of your kids each day. 

 

I’m not crying, you’re crying!

 

But I guess a kid would take the space my mind has reserved for men who don’t text back. At least a kid deserves that much space. This goes in the “pro” column.

 

I can’t help but wonder how the hell does one find a man to trust to not burn down a kitchen or accidentally kill our child? And obviously keep Mommy satisfied in the 1,001 ways she demands (even though she could only satisfy about 27 of his…. Mommy is only human).

 

And what if Mommy’s perfectionism bleeds from her onto you, the same issue that made it a miracle that you exist in this world in the first place? And what if you never feel good enough even though Mommy tried her damn best to walk the tightrope of making you feel like you could conquer the world, without making you an over-confident little douche?

 

And what if the Herculean efforts Mommy made to not have you in her 20s and early 30s create some sort of cosmic irony that makes it so she can’t have you when she’s ready? Or when she talks herself into being ready because she only has a few good eggs left and time is running out? And all those jokes about pushing her down the steps of her 6-floor walk-up if (insert name here) knocks her up aren’t funny now (and let’s face it, probably never were). 

 

And what if Mommy’s crass sense of humor keeps her from ever meeting you? And she ends up alone for all of eternity in an apartment that isn’t even big enough to house a companion cat?

 

So many questions.

 

Now I’m starting to sound like a child. 

 

Stage 3. A Feelin Inside.

 

A welcome distraction from the doubt. You see that man? Over there? I feel something. My ovaries are buzzing. There is something about 32 that makes dads, especially GirlDads, my kryptonite. I see them on the street. In bars. Coffee shops. Yoga studios. My mind. 

 

They’re everywhere. 

 

This gravitational pull towards men with built-in proof of the bounty of their loins is strong enough to make me want to move to Brooklyn, where they brew kombucha to make sure their little girl’s gut biome is as strong as their Daddy’s biceps.

 

Hot Dads hold a power that hits 10 on my Reproductive Richter Scale. 

 

This is 32. They warned me about this. It’s happening…

 

Biceps. Babies. Brooklyn.

 

Oh my.

 

A 47-year-old #GirlDad with his own business is a hell of a lot sexier than a 33-year-old who just got broken up with by his GF of 5 years and can’t stop talking about being captain of his intramural soccer team and his new puppy, Doge. 

 

But can you not burn down a kitchen? I need proof.

 

Well thanks to all the hot dads out there, I got proof… that my oves…. they’re, they’re working! A big shout out to all those homework-helpin’, emotionally intelligent, fiercely loyal Daddies who are jump-starting my internal clock. I’ve imagined your big ass sexy hands holding a baby and it’s more effective than watching Magic Mike. 

 

Excuse me while I get a mop. And try not to make eye contact with your wife.

 

Stage 4. A Legacy.

 

And if hot dads weren’t enough, death has managed to put a nail in the coffin. Of my doubt. 

 

I want to raise a little girl. 

 

I’m a descendant of Chickie from The Bronx. A force of nature whose timeless movie star smile had the power to change a room. A woman whose enduring honesty and sharp wit were outmatched by her generous heart.

A woman I’m lucky to call Yia Yia.

 

Chickie had moxie. 

 

I don’t know who I would be without her influence. And I wonder who she would have been if life had been kinder to her. She was tough. But she had to be. Despite everything, she had a sparkle and child-like wonder that were a part of her fabric until the very last day. If I could time travel, it would be to have a gin fizz with Chickie at 28. Before things got hard. And to see her face light up while she slow danced with her beloved Jim. Who I never got to meet. Chickie and I would have talked and giggled and danced all night. We would have made a lot of trouble together. And laughed every second of it.

 

As Chickie’s two generations of girls put their hands together on her coffin (one dressed in that same BCBG skirt), something happened. In that moment of sadness and pride, my insides received Chickie’s maternal bat signal.

And my decision was made. 

 

If my brother decides not to have kids, it’s up to me to keep the family name alive. 

 

To honor the legacy of Chickie. And Marge. And the women in my family who were born at a time when they couldn’t wreak the kind of havoc they were capable of. 

 

To raise a little girl with Chickie’s kinda moxie. 

 

And try to give her every opportunity, so she can electrify the world. 

 

Current Stage. Where There's an Existential Crisis, There's Hope.

 

The clock is ticking and who knows if our true mother, Mother Earth, will be around long enough to bide me the time to dawdle in a state of childless limbo. After all, if her kids are killing her, by daily choices lead purely by greed… then maybe I’m doomed too? Who am I to think my kids would treat me better than our very own Gaia?

 

I need at least another 6 years.

 

Oh, and a man. 

 

A partner.

 

That would help.

 

There is always the option of heeding the advice of a drunk, hot, 40-something woman I once met at a bar on E 97th St. Around midnight on a Tuesday. 

 

“The urge to have kids is like a fart, hold it in long enough and it will pass.” 

 

She then disappeared into the night with a cartoonishly short, balding man that looked like Mr. Monopoly’s less successful 2nd cousin. The one who owns a used car dealership in Queens, to the left of Pacific Avenue.

 

The future is bright. 


 

But I now know, Chickie’s spirit shines brighter.