Mary Jane Could Never

Last time on Mary Jane Could Never: David changes his travel plans to spend more time with me on my birthday, and I learn more about his romantic past. Our conversations send me down a path of re-evaluating my decisions to chose my career over marriage and having children. Despite my foreboding about his lonely lifestyle, I accept his request to see me again after my vacation is over.

I can still remember the pleasant sting of the bathwater against my skin as I sat in the tub. It was still my birthday, a few hours before sunset. Each private, open cabana at the resort had a tub for bubble baths and a breathtaking view of the lake that stretched just beyond the thousands of trees looming overhead. I enjoyed having the cabana all to myself, but everything inside of it accommodated two. 

David would have loved this, I thought. I texted him a photo. 

DAVID 

Looks amazing!

ME

Yeah, I’m sorry you’re missing this, lol. It accommodates two people. The tub is a nice size, too. 

And it’s very private. This place didn’t disappoint at all.

DAVID

Ahh ha! There could have been 2 of us in there!

It wasn’t hard to imagine him in there with me. In my mind, David spooned me as he lay against the back of the tub, wrapping his arms around me and cupping my breast in his hand. I sank my back into his chest indulgently. But his torso was doughy from children and time. This wasn’t the current us I was fantasizing about. Time stretched into the future as I envisioned us from a distance, a few feet away from the tub. David’s face was fuller, looking even more like a king. How many years older were we? Ten? Fifteen? Crow’s feet were starting to form at the corners of my eyes. 

“All these years later, you made it up to me. I never thought I’d see this place for myself,” I could hear David say to me.

“I’m a woman of my word,” I’d say back. “I’m just glad this place held up so well. It’s even prettier than I remembered.”

“You always did have good taste,” David would say. “This is one helluva anniversary present. Thanks, babe.”

“You’re welcome, babe,” I said as I rubbed David’s thigh in the water. “You’ll have plenty of time to make it up to me when you take me to the Maldives next year.” I paused. “I hope the kids aren’t driving the nanny crazy. I like that girl, but she comes off as a little nervous, don’t you think?”

“Don’t fuss over it. I’m sure the kids are fine,” David would say, stroking my side. “I just spoke to her an hour ago, and it’s not like the kids are babies anymore. They can practically look after themselves at this age.”

“Must be nice to feel so laissez-faire about it,” I teased him. “I’d take a page out of your book if I didn’t end up having to play bad cop all the time.”

“You worry too much,” David said, squeezing me tighter. “Just be here with me and enjoy the view. Besides, last time I checked, those kids were your idea–”

“Oh no, no, no, no, no, no,” I playfully scoffed. “Don’t play revisionist history with me!” I said laughing, and splashing him with water. I could hear David softly laughing behind me. “You’re the one who wanted children. You won me over, I’ll give you that–and I agreed to be the mother of your children, but those babies were your idea.”

“Ah, but I just wanted two babies,” David said. “Whose idea was it to have three?”

“Oh, shut up,” I said in defeat, splashing him with water again. 

David kept laughing, then paused to kiss my temple. “It’s okay. I have no regrets,” he said, stroking my breast. 

I looked ahead in the bathtub, but I no longer saw David’s legs in the water; only mine. I was back to the present moment. This didn’t sadden me, though. His presence was there, lingering around me like the steam from the tub as the sun’s rays poured into the cabana. The air felt thick with possibilities, and I got the feeling that something consequential was happening. Like that feeling I felt when I was lying in David’s arms in the wee hours of the morning. But this time it felt more hopeful, optimistic. It felt like I had something to look forward to. 

I had my birthday dinner by myself as planned but again, I didn’t feel alone. The next morning I woke up to this: 

DAVID

Good morning! Back in the office today, I’m dragging though. I loved the time we spent together. We must find some time to make it happen again soon. Enjoy your day, cutie!

We’ll catch up later.

I held onto that buoyant, chipper feeling as I went on with my vacation. I kept sightseeing in the mountains and spent time hopping around antique stores. Before leaving, I spent $40 on a diffuser that smelled like pines to remind me of the mountains when I got home. On my way back to the apartment, I had dinner at a steakhouse. The thought of seeing David again kept me warm in the chilly dining room. 

The next day–a Saturday–I ventured out to a vineyard. David’s apparition floated around me again, this time around my apartment as I got ready. He put on his cufflinks and kissed my shoulder as I pulled on my slinky spaghetti strap dress in the mirror. When I got to the vineyard and walked through the main entrance, I envisioned him walking beside me. Then I envisioned people stealing glances at us, wondering who we were and why we looked so polished and important. Don’t I know her from somewhere? The face looks familiar…

I bought myself a glass of pinot grigio and walked out onto the back patio filled with families, couples on dates, and groups of women on girls’ trips. Beyond the patio was a forest to one side, a hundred acres of grapevines straight ahead and even more forests as far as the eye could see. The sky looked like a Boudin painting. 

I went through hell and back at Station XX to be able to afford experiences like this, I thought. 

I stood there savoring how the warm, breezy air enveloped my skin. My eyes were resting on the grapevines, but my mind was transporting me through time again. Instead of looking at the vineyard, I was brought back to the cabana resort, as if I were peering at the river view from my bathtub. I was taking in the lush greenery of the tree canopies folding out towards the water. Then my view melded into another memory. This time, I could see the never-ending mountains surrounding me at the highest mountaintop, the mountaintop I drove back to the day after my birthday. The clouds had cleared by then. The aroma of the pines was intoxicating, and the slopes of the mountains flowed together in a mosaic of moss and sapphire swatches covered in mist. 

And then more visuals from my favorite memories kept flashing before my eyes. The best moments from my solo adventures as a woman flowed into one another as a montage, and I was filled with this overwhelming sense of joy and gratitude. My memories of the Appalachian mountains flowed into my memories of the West African countryside, like riding shotgun in a jitney on a two-lane highway. Then another memory–my view of the Atlantic Ocean as I stood on the Gold Coast. Silvery blue waves crashed against the shore lightly sprayed with black sand, and abandoned homes sat in the distance while they overlooked the water. 

Some of my best memories from living in the Motherland were more mundane. Like memories of me skipping and bopping in the street to Amber Mark and The Internet in my headphones during my commutes. Dodging the cars and the dirty trenches, I’d frequently stop to buy freshly cut coconut water. Sometimes I stopped just to chat with my favorite street vendors. 

My thoughts kept wandering until they brought me back to my life in America. I remembered all the romantic dinners I had taken myself on when I could finally afford to. The countless hours I spent curating my apartment to perfection. The hundreds of miles I pedaled my cruiser through nature trails and clean, quiet streets in affluent neighborhoods. 

I’d been through some real shit. But I’d made it to the other side. I talked to God in gardens–sometimes while I was in downward dog, sometimes while I was sitting on a bench. I bought myself beautiful clothes and shoes until my heart’s content, and then I bought some more. I bought myself orchids and hydrangeas and palms and fiddle figs. One time, I even bought myself 10 dozen roses. It took almost a week to arrange the bouquet alone. I cooked myself gourmet meals smothered in love. I dined in chairs fit for a queen and I sat at a table stained and lacquered with my own hands. 

I had suffered, yes. In the decade since my life fell apart and I was forced to put myself together again, I had suffered. And still, I poured into myself. I made a life of loving myself. The road to getting Station XX had so many lows. But the highs before and after them were unimaginable. And even though I was unhappy at work, I had created a great life outside of it. I got to be selfish, deeply selfish in ways my mother and her mother and her mother never got to. I was able to carve out a life for myself. A life that I thought of, not one imagined for me. And for that, I liked myself. I liked the woman I had become. I was grateful for the solo adventures that made me this version of myself, and suddenly, I didn’t feel like being so selfish with my adventures anymore. 

I looked around, remembering I was back at the vineyard, and felt this urge to have people there with me as I stood on the patio under the blazing sun. Families and friends surrounded me with their wine glasses and lively chatter, and I wanted my family. My own family that I had created. Like at the cabana resort, I didn’t feel alone. I felt too effervescent to feel lonely at the same time. I just had this craving to share the joy. I had this craving to share my flesh and blood. 

“Excuse me, can you please take our picture?” a voice asked, interrupting my thoughts. 

It was a woman and her girlfriends, a foursome that looked like a Southern answer to “Sex and the City.” I snapped their photos, and my fantasies of David came back. Dreams of us talking about our imaginary children trailed behind. One of the ladies returned the favor when I was done, taking photos of me leaning against the stone railing with endless grapevines behind me. The photos looked beautiful; I’m still fond of them. But in that moment, I thought of what it would look like if David were standing beside me with his arm snaked around my waist. 

*                   *                   *

The next day was a Sunday, the last day of my birthday vacation. This time to celebrate, I took myself to my favorite lake that was an hour away from my home. The water looked like glass fenced in by a massive, winding wall of trees. The sun was generous; only occasionally retreating behind the clouds before illuminating my skin and casting glints in the water. 

As usual, not many people were around; that was why I liked the lake so much. I was only surrounded by a few families enjoying the last of the warm weather before the seasons changed. The lake was another one of my safe places. It was too far from home to run into any Station XX viewers, but it was close enough for me to get there without too much muss and fuss. It was the perfect quick getaway. I waded in the water for a while before coming back to my towel and picnic table to journal. I opened up my notebook and started to write.

Should I have children? 

An investigation

I’m afraid of losing my freedom, identity and comfort.

I always assumed that I just wouldn’t have children. 

“I want to see you again.” David’s words haunted me. When I repeated those words back to him, nakedly sitting on that hotel bed, I was only interested in having sex with him again. That, and enjoying his company through foreplay like eating off each other’s plates in sultry restaurants and having meandering conversations over elaborate cocktails. I presume he had the same thing in mind. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about our conversation about wanting to have children, and how it was the one thing we were at odds over. 

For my entire adult life, I felt so strongly about not wanting to have children. I wanted to find love and be partnered; I was open and honest about that. I wanted my future partner and I to focus on each other, to enjoy each other. I didn’t want to be shackled by the burdens and risks that came along with motherhood. Those were the things I always associated with having children–shackles and burdens. 

But for the first time in years, I met a man whom I was attracted to and took seriously enough to explore whether we had a future together. Yes, there was the obstacle of us living hundreds of miles away from each other. And sure, neither of us had grand expectations of where things would go after our tryst in the mountains. But there was a connection there. I wanted to see this man again, and he wanted to see me. 

I think I had always abstained from even entertaining the desire to get married and have children because I just didn’t trust men. Subconsciously, I believed I wouldn’t find a man I would want to have children with. I didn’t believe I would find a man I would feel safe enough to have children with. I was afraid I wouldn’t find a man I would want to stay with, or who would want to stay with me. I didn’t believe I would find a man who could afford to provide the secure and comfortable life I desired for my children. I didn’t trust that I would find a man who would be faithful, emotionally intelligent, and would pull his weight in creating a household. The men in my family hadn’t modeled that for me.

Sure, virtually all of the fathers in my family married the women with whom they had children. But most of them ended up divorced—including my parents–or in separations disguised as long-distance marriages. I was conceived because it was just the thing married people did in those days, and my sister was a band-aid baby. It didn’t matter that my mother admitted this to me as an adult; it was apparent to me as a child. You develop an innate disinterest in marriage and motherhood when you know you’re the product of a marriage that never should have happened. 

Besides, I had yet to date a man who was settled in his life and doing well enough for me to trust that he could lead a family with me. Hell, I had yet to settle into my life before that point, and I hadn’t trusted myself to lead a family with someone. I was a woman-child when I dated those men in our short-lived, ill-fated romances before I stopped having sex completely. 

Yet that was five years ago. Now I was in a different stage in my life. I was making more money and finally enjoying some of the stability I had worked towards for so long. I was more responsible and self-sustaining, and I respected myself more because of it. I’d been to therapy. A lot of therapy. I didn’t see myself as a woman-child anymore–just as a woman. Most importantly, I’d had a taste of commercial success, and I’d realized it wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Like David, I wanted more meaningful ways to spend my time. Pouring myself into the lives of children I had created suddenly seemed like a viable, more attractive way to do that. 

I still didn’t know David very well yet. I knew that. But I felt like I was having a reckoning. I met someone who was passionate about having children. At the most superficial level, he modeled the financial security and yearning to provide for a family that I would want to see in a man if I were to have children with him. I felt like David was challenging the worst assumptions I’d always had for my romantic future and my prospects for having a family. Whether it was David or someone else—if I met someone, if we fell in love with one another, and that someone made me feel safe and cared for enough to create a family with him, why wouldn’t I have our children? What was holding me back? I didn’t ask myself this in a judgmental or self-deprecating way. I was really asking myself, and I was asking with an earnest inquisitiveness one might expect from a therapist.

I surprised myself with the long list of fears I wrote:

I’m afraid of forever being attached to a man I could grow to hate. 

I’m afraid of forever being attached to a man who could harm me. 

I’m afraid of having children with a man who can’t provide for us, could be financially irresponsible, and could put us all in a bad financial position with his own poor decisions. 

I’m afraid of having a child with a man who could be harboring undesirable traits that could later surface in our children. 

I’m afraid of being met with unexpected childcare costs and not being able to handle it. 

I’m afraid of dying in childbirth or having a traumatic birthing experience. 

I’m afraid to have children with a man who is not as engaged and serious about being a parent as I am. 

I’m afraid of being dumped with the bulk of the work. 

I’m afraid of unexpected, lifelong healthcare issues my children could have that I can’t protect them from–disabilities, heart problems, mental health problems, etc. 

I’m afraid of it having negative consequences for my health and career, and that it could derail my professional trajectory. 

I’m afraid having children will make me less desirable.

I’m afraid my children will become people I won’t like.

There was something about writing out my greatest fears of becoming a mother that validated them and made them feel easier to manage and account for at the same time. I asked myself what I wanted for my life going forward. The answer was simple: I wanted to love and be loved. I wanted to love and care for other people, and I wanted to be loved and cared for by people I had given myself to. I wanted to leave my wealth behind to the people I had raised. I was no longer satisfied with the prospect of leaving it behind to other people’s children who had been raised with other people’s values. I came to this reckoning feeling fearful and pessimistic about motherhood. But now the possibility of becoming a mother felt like my next adventure. My biggest adventure. The thought of becoming a mother made me feel radiant, hopeful, expansive, curious. I felt light in my body.

I thought about what it would take for me to say “yes” to motherhood and feel good about it. I reasoned I would need to have a loving partner who was just as committed to being a good partner as I was. When I got really honest with myself, I admitted that I would probably really enjoy being a mother. I just needed a supportive father alongside me, and a tribe of loved ones to have our backs. I’m a highly affectionate and nurturing person and I sensed that large parts of being a mother would probably come naturally to me. 

Can someone who didn’t want or plan to be a parent end up loving the experience?

I decided that whenever I spoke to David again, I would tell him I had been re-evaluating my feelings about having children. I would tell him that I was still interested in seeing him again, but only under the condition that we make an earnest effort to get to know each other. “We can go on a real date,” I would say. I didn’t want to see him if the end goal was just to have sex, even though I really did want to have sex with him again. I longed to have sex with him again. But that didn’t matter. I only wanted to move forward if we were seeing each other to explore whether we wanted to be in a serious relationship. 

I had no regrets about our fling in the mountains. But everything about that experience told me casual sex just wasn’t for me anymore. I had changed, and I was realizing that the circumstances in which I wanted to have sex were changing, too. If David wasn’t interested in taking things in a more thoughtful and serious direction, I would respect that. If that’s how he felt, we could just leave things where we left off in the mountains. 

I didn’t want to have sex with David–or any man for that matter–if he didn’t see a future with me and wasn’t actively working towards it. I wanted to have sex with a man I had gotten to know deeply, and who earned my trust and respect. I wanted to have sex with a man who had taken the time to deeply get to know me. He had to be a man who saw me as his potential wife, life partner, and would be excited to have me be the mother of his children. He had to be someone who would make space for me as a significant part of his life, and who wouldn’t mind giving me some space and time to decide if having children was really what I wanted to do. 

I let the weekend go by, expecting David to reach out once the week started. Monday came and went, then Tuesday and Wednesday. 

I never heard from David ever again.