The progression of my 20s has been marked by a series of changes, which have arrived both serenely and with all the subtlety of that first near-death hangover: mysteriously clicking joints; first purchases of real, expensive furniture; a palate that now firmly rejects $12 wine; love, loss and the spectrum in between. And, of course, babies.
First, it was Facebook announcements from people I went to school with or had otherwise crossed paths with on the periphery of my early life. Then, people I knew in my present life: friends began talking about babies, factoring them into future plans and actually having them.
Like many women, I have been acutely aware of the possibility of falling pregnant since adolescence. In high school, I rolled condoms onto bananas with my classmates and dutifully learned to fear the spectre of my own fertility, hovering over my butterfly-embroidered bedsheets.
