Nursing a drink?

The balance of Facebook baby photos versus Facebook drunk photos has now shifted in the babies’ favour. “So what? ” you might think. Well I didn’t care either until I noticed I wasn’t holding a bottle of champagne while waiting to cross the road this afternoon – I was nursing it in the nook of my hip, supporting its neck with my forearm and lulling it with a gentle up and down rocking.

I’m really not sure what to make of it. I’m dead sure I’m still the cool ‘Why have marriage and babies when you can have beer and playstation’ girlfriend but admittedly it did spook me a little.
I probably wouldn’t have noticed my actions had the Vietnamese waitress not stopped aligning chopsticks to stare at me peculiarly. At first I thought my iPod had been so loud I must have farted without realising, so I gave a blame-shifting disapproving eyebrow to the gentleman next to me just to cover my bases.
So what gives? Has the critical mass of friends-with-babies over friends-with-hangovers kicked off my biological clock into some kind of proverbial count down?
Many of my friends came into adulthood with an innate knowing (is that a tautology?) that they wanted to be a wife and a mother and that everything else in life was going to fall into place or didn’t matter other than their little one once that was achieved.
I didn’t.
I absolutely admire the women in my life who are good mothers (that’s all of you, so far) and I thank them for their contribution to the Australian economy as the ageing population rapidly sucks the life out of our bureaucratic coffers. Consciously, at least, I’m just not feeling it. And I worry – not in a stay awake at night festering concern kind of way but in a hmm what’s going on here kinda way – that the Fear Of Missing Out (“FOMO”) mentality common in all of us women without better things to worry might creep, or be creeping, into my psyche.
I don’t want FOMO fucking with my biological clock. Maybe FOMO has nothing to do with it and my biological clock is ticking away because I’m now in my thirties – but I prefer to take the tabloid stance that if there’s a chance that something that can be blamed on social media, take it. Am I starting to want a baby because everyone else has one, and that makes me feel like I should, too?
Since the biological clock has placed itself into a proverbial state of ticking let me try and figure the situation through a free-flowing whatever comes to my mind metaphor:
Basketball, got it. (Social media/Net/Basketball Net – see?)
I’m in the basketball game of life (Disney – I want royalties if you pick this one up), and it’s the Chicago Bull-shit I’m Gonna Parties playing the Boston You Should Have A Baby Boomers. The Boston Baby Boomers have just called in a sub and it’s a strong player, FOMO (Fear of Missing Out, a freakishly tall Vietnamese waitress.) The Boomers are losing but with FOMO they might just slam dunk their way into a victory for procreation. I’m the Chicago Bull-shit I’m Gonna Parties’ coach and I’ve just jumped up from the sidelines to call a time out. I’m yelling at the ref because FOMO was never a member of either team and she’s clearly going to give the other side an advantage. My girls are tired and I don’t know if they can fight off a player like FOMO. They are also drunk which is probably slowing them down but it’s at least giving the crowd the entertainment they came for.
The buzzer sounds and the game is back on, FOMO is in and in the first few minutes she dazzles and swishes her way until the Baby Boomers are well ahead. The Bull-shits are watching the Boomers and thinking maybe they’re now playing on the wrong team.
I sit back in my chair and my younger assistant coaches rub my shoulders and tell me we can still win. I throw down my Powerade in defeat – I realise the Boomers are a better team, they will probably win and rightly so. But I also realise there’s still plenty of time on the clock and while Baby might win by the 40th year – hahum, I mean minute – why not give them a run for their money for as long as my team can possibly hold out? A close game is a good game, after all.
Sorry if I lost you all there – I can often get caught up in my mind metaphors – but it’s helped me clarify my thoughts on the matter. I probably do want the Baby to win in the end, I just want the game to feel a little unpredictable and exciting first, and I don’t want it to be decided by FOMO and the Net.
When the clock hits 40 or close to it – and if I’m blessed with having the option – it’s okay for Baby to claim victory and I’ll proudly accept the new coach position. But until then the Bull-shits have it, and I don’t care if it’s a foul: I want them to travel.