I’m at that age?

I have a confession to make: I spend an inordinate amount of my time on WordPress reading Mommy Blogs.

Something about these women’s stories of impending newborns, irate toddlers and cute kid moments just tugs at my heart strings and keeps me coming back for more. Is my biological alarm clock going off? Can I tell it to sleep for a couple more years?

I was chatting with a friend last night about how we kids in medical school are still waiting for our lives to start. I’ve talked about this issue before – dealing with friends who are now married, have kids, have jobs. But frankly it only gets worse the closer we get to our graduation date. Spending five years in university is an anomaly compared to everyone else. The girls now in first year on MSH are the same girls I will be graduating with in three years time. The cohort I entered university with is graduating next year. The math is all wrong.

Maybe that’s what my ovaries are trying to tell me by turning up the oestrogen and inducing this hunger for maternal information, secondhand or otherwise. Am I at the age when all I should be thinking about is starting a family? Curse you, my feminine body parts!

I have joined the ranks of (modern) women who put careers over kids, and financial independence over families. I’m not a fanatic feminist (okay, I’ll quit with the alliteration) but I recognize and appreciate the importance of having a good amount of stability in my life before I go complicating it with children. And children are complications, from the moment of their conception til the moment you move on to the afterlife. Cute, cocky, charming, frustrating complications.

So for now I’ll sate my totally irrational (but psychologically valid) instinct for nesting with stories of actual mamas dealing with their awesome, scary children.

Let the Mommy Blogs continue!

Mommy Blogs I read with astonishing regularity: 

Welcome to the Motherhood

The Bloggess (she counts. Sometimes. The Bloggess counts all the time).

Recent Mommy Blog from Freshly Pressed:

The Ramblings of a Pregnant Twenty-Something

This Mommy Blog fixation probably started with the friends I had on Livejournal, because all of them had kids and would tell stories about them in between the stories they shared about Harry Potter. So I blame Harry Potter.

A Feminine Issue: Bra-Burning

My friends don’t always have things in common with each other, despite sharing things in common with me. But Dee and Ell stand united in their endless quest to rid my closet of sports bras.

 

No one looks like this when exercising.

 

There you go, the bane of the trendy, feminine woman. Unless of course she’s wearing them in trendy combination with matching sweats and pedalling away on a stationary bike at the gym, glowing.

I happen to wear them quite often, despite my aversion to gyms and despite Dee’s and Ell’s aversion to my wearing them.

“Where are your boobs?!”

“Resting.”

“You look like a twelve year old boy!”

“Would a twelve year old boy dress like this?”

“Don’t you have any push-up bras?”

“Of course. But underwire is the devil.”

“I’m going to burn all your sports bras.”

Faced with a threat like that, I quivered.

Underwire can be a bitch sometimes: it sticks you, it restricts you. It puts your girls on promenade for the whole world to ogle. It sells the masculine fantasy of the ultimate woman. It’s God’s gift to post-menopausal sagging mammary adipose.

But it has its place, I won’t deny that. Women’s clothing is designed to fit over uplifted pairs of breasts, not ones that hang as Cooper’s ligament sees fit. Ours is a shallow world, but we have to play by its rules.

So on days when I don’t have to look the proper lady, I don my ultra-comfy, anti-flirty sport bra and I give a nod to the Bra Burners of the sixties. ¡Viva la Revolución!

Speaking words

I wanted to have a geek post about Neuroscience or medicine, or something else I’m studying that I feel like the world should know about (because education should be about the sharing of knowledge, not just its retention), but every time I move to start typing some long esoteric word, my fingers hesitate and I second-guess. And third-guess. And delete instead.

Because I think passions should maybe come naturally, without the need for a jump start. And if I was really interested in what I had to say, the words would be flying on wings like my fingers on these keys right now. They only stop when they hit a cloud bank.

So instead I will share something that I am passionate about, that has inspired passion in me, and was born of passion in someone else.

Staceyann Chin is a Jamaican, just like me. But that’s pretty much where the comparison ends. She is half-Asian and a lesbian and a feminist and loud with crazy hair, not afraid to scream her mind. She is skinny as a colt, with lungs like an elephant, and she is unapologetically, rawly beautiful.

Transcription.

Pax.