The question “when are you going to have a baby, Sadie?” is like coleslaw. I get it about twice a week. People who barely know me feel fine asking it irrespective of whether they know I can or want to. They come straight in with the “when?” It seems it’s open fodder for anyone who can see you’re carrying a vagina somewhere about your person. It’s more permissible than enquiring about people’s finances or true feelings on love. It’s almost clinical. But the ‘when’ is important. Because time is of the essence.
I’ve always fobbed off the questions, light and smiling, as though having a baby is like going on a hiking trip around Guatamala; possible, but not likely. I’ve been paddling at the luxurious deep end of biological grace; the right side of the right time.
I’m writing a play about the choice that women have to make, about two women –…
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