Maybe It Was a Bad Time to Bring It Up

I've spent the last 12-some-odd years doing everything in my power not to have a baby. Born Catholic, I was raised to believe that sex before marriage pretty much equaled pregnancy, so despite all the precautions I took, I spent many-a post-coital hour saying prayers, begging the Lord not to punish me.

As I grew and spent time in more mature relationships, the paranoia subsided, but every late pill sent a chill of fear up my uterus.

That is, however, until just the last few months, as I've mentally marked off the days until my 30th birthday. Suddenly a new panic has set in - what if I can't have a baby?

I, of course, have no real reason to fear this. Plenty of women have babies after 30. Even my own mother did. But in a mere 23 days I will hit that mark, and I'm not married, nor to I plan to be in the next few years. But even if I were, I don't feel anywhere near ready to be responsible for a being other than myself.

Yet there's still this nagging worry that I may actively be missing my window, and no matter how hard I try to be cool and calm about it when I bring it up to my boyfriend (who, mind you, is four years my junior) I always end up coming off something like this: