MY boyfriend collected all sorts of beautiful things: Aalto glass, Eames chairs, exotic plants that he stole from botanical gardens. But he did not wish to add me to his permanent collection, so on the eve of my 34th birthday, he glanced around his tastefully appointed home and decided he had one clock — and one pregnant girlfriend — too many.
As parting gifts go, I have to say it was a beautiful clock, an early digital made by Lawson in the 1930s. Art Deco in its design with clean horizontal lines bisecting its compact bronze body, the clock had gently rotating Bakelite numbers that told perfect time, though once it was in my possession I never used the thing.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like it; it just jarred me. Its unfortunate association with my biological clock was, though not intended, unavoidable, because it arrived on the heels of an abortion I would deeply regret. Every time I looked at it, I thought of him, and the chance I had and the choice I made, and the sorrowful repercussions.
I finally sold that clock on eBay and donated the money to charity, to rid myself of the bad juju it carried for 15 years.
It isn’t very often that you’re called upon to make a decision that you know will affect the rest of your life, a decision that is irrevocable and defining. I chose to end the pregnancy for what I thought were good reasons, chief among them being my boyfriend’s emphatic unwillingness to be a father. Although his initial reaction to the news was muted, he came out strongly against it once I announced my desire to keep the baby.
Months earlier he’d referred to me as his love, “ma femme,” he called me. But lately things had been dicey.
I argued weakly with him that we could make it work. Without him, I didn’t see a way forward. I had no savings, and no family around to support or encourage me. I was terrified, and not just about being a single parent. I was afraid that with a baby I’d be off the market for good. And I wanted a husband as much as I wanted a baby, if not more. Maybe I knew instinctively that I wasn’t cut out for single parenthood. And I wanted what I wanted: husband, home, baby, in that order.
Even before the pregnancy test I’d been hinting at commitment, and he’d been making evasive noises. We were in “turnaround,” as they say in show business. From the moment I told him I was pregnant, it became my “problem,” as in “What are you going to do about the problem?”
He wanted things to stay as they were: easy, breezy and open-ended. I was 34, divorced and had not yet found my professional niche. I was working for a major film studio but drove a junk heap of a car and lived from paycheck to paycheck.
None of which appealed to him. Come to think of it, I’m hard pressed to say what about me did appeal to him, other than the fact that I was a pretty blonde who took him to screenings and the occasional premiere. I think we found each other exotic. He wasn’t my usual bad boy, and I wasn’t like the ditzy Hollywood princesses who bored him to death. All it took to impress him was my knowing the difference between Manet and Monet.
He was a charming architect with a BMW and perfect teeth. I thought I wanted him. Turns out what I really wanted was that baby. What he really wanted was to move on with minimal disruption or conflict, and he was willing to part with one of his precious possessions to send me off with a clear conscience. He had two of them. The clocks, that is. He knew I admired them. Thus, the parting gift. I imagine it was, in his way of thinking, a bargain.
When he wasn’t brooding or obsessively gardening, he was delightful. He could induce a gushing response in me with a mere touch. He could be tender and adventurous, and had an unerring eye for beautiful things. He taught me about scale, proportion, design and double-glazing. He had taste; what he didn’t have was an appetite for a family, at least with me. I was desperate and deluded enough to think I could change his mind.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like it; it just jarred me. Its unfortunate association with my biological clock was, though not intended, unavoidable, because it arrived on the heels of an abortion I would deeply regret. Every time I looked at it, I thought of him, and the chance I had and the choice I made, and the sorrowful repercussions.
I finally sold that clock on eBay and donated the money to charity, to rid myself of the bad juju it carried for 15 years.
It isn’t very often that you’re called upon to make a decision that you know will affect the rest of your life, a decision that is irrevocable and defining. I chose to end the pregnancy for what I thought were good reasons, chief among them being my boyfriend’s emphatic unwillingness to be a father. Although his initial reaction to the news was muted, he came out strongly against it once I announced my desire to keep the baby.
Months earlier he’d referred to me as his love, “ma femme,” he called me. But lately things had been dicey.
I argued weakly with him that we could make it work. Without him, I didn’t see a way forward. I had no savings, and no family around to support or encourage me. I was terrified, and not just about being a single parent. I was afraid that with a baby I’d be off the market for good. And I wanted a husband as much as I wanted a baby, if not more. Maybe I knew instinctively that I wasn’t cut out for single parenthood. And I wanted what I wanted: husband, home, baby, in that order.
Even before the pregnancy test I’d been hinting at commitment, and he’d been making evasive noises. We were in “turnaround,” as they say in show business. From the moment I told him I was pregnant, it became my “problem,” as in “What are you going to do about the problem?”
He wanted things to stay as they were: easy, breezy and open-ended. I was 34, divorced and had not yet found my professional niche. I was working for a major film studio but drove a junk heap of a car and lived from paycheck to paycheck.
None of which appealed to him. Come to think of it, I’m hard pressed to say what about me did appeal to him, other than the fact that I was a pretty blonde who took him to screenings and the occasional premiere. I think we found each other exotic. He wasn’t my usual bad boy, and I wasn’t like the ditzy Hollywood princesses who bored him to death. All it took to impress him was my knowing the difference between Manet and Monet.
He was a charming architect with a BMW and perfect teeth. I thought I wanted him. Turns out what I really wanted was that baby. What he really wanted was to move on with minimal disruption or conflict, and he was willing to part with one of his precious possessions to send me off with a clear conscience. He had two of them. The clocks, that is. He knew I admired them. Thus, the parting gift. I imagine it was, in his way of thinking, a bargain.
When he wasn’t brooding or obsessively gardening, he was delightful. He could induce a gushing response in me with a mere touch. He could be tender and adventurous, and had an unerring eye for beautiful things. He taught me about scale, proportion, design and double-glazing. He had taste; what he didn’t have was an appetite for a family, at least with me. I was desperate and deluded enough to think I could change his mind.
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