Bare it All

Mara Reinstein has become many things in her 40ish years—a writer, film critic, satellite radio host, world traveler, friend, auntie—but one thing she never longed to be called was “mom.” Hear what it’s like to choose to defy the greatest enduring expectation of women in this month’s “Life with the Girls.” 

I plopped down at the cozy corner booth expecting a long-awaited catch-up dinner with a former coworker. I didn’t realize it would be an intervention with a side of bread.

“You really need to freeze your eggs, Mara,” Leslie instructed me while the menus were still on the table. “It’s for your own good. By the time you realize you want to be a mother, it will be too late.”

Leslie had been struggling with fertility issues, so I know she had the best intentions. That’s why I listened and nodded politely and deftly attempted to change the subject. I just didn’t have the heart to reply with the thought that instantly formed in my brain: “Look, I know I’m only 36, but that’s not happening. I’d rather spend all that money on my next trip to Europe.”

Now that I’m in my mid-40s, I can say it proudly and hopefully without judgment from others: Motherhood is not for me.

When she was dealing with her father’s death and her own dependency problems, becoming a mother felt increasingly out of reach for Abbe Wright. But she wasn’t about to let today’s pain get in the way of tomorrow’s plans. In this month’s “Life with the Girls,” find out how Abbe froze time for her future.

I awoke to the sound of my biological clock thudding in my ears sometime in my mid-thirties. I became aware of its steady, anxiety-inducing drumbeat slowly, groggily, as if coming out of a coma—at first, I could barely sense it and then, all of a sudden, its syncopation was all-consuming. While I hadn’t been in an actual coma, I had certainly missed a large chunk of my life.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer when I was 26. At the time, I was living in Manhattan, working at my dream job, dating a man who wasn’t entirely right for me, and partying—spending most nights mixing alcohol with a cocktail of uppers and downers, eager to achieve that perfect night-out balance of not getting too drunk, while also not remembering the morning after. I’d envisioned this big life for myself, and here I was living it—having achieved it through a blend of blind ambition and dumb luck, fueled by youthful energy and lots of booze.

But when my dad got sick, everything changed. His illness gripped him quickly and, almost immediately, it was Capital-B Bad. For four years, he was in and out of the hospital, eager to try things like a bone marrow transplant, which, while promising to extend his life, nearly killed him in the process. He achieved remission a few times, but it always came back.

I was no longer living that carefree life. I would work all week, barely able to focus, then take the 6:32 PM train to Philadelphia on Friday nights. My weekends went from day drinking with friends to sitting beside my dad’s hospital bed, encouraging him to eat something, anything. Watching a parent die slowly feels like your own death by a thousand paper cuts. You’re constantly worried that the conversation you just had will be the last, that he’ll be gone before you see him again. The fear and anxiety wrap around your throat; it’s hard to remember what life felt like before you were choked by it.