Will the sperms make the family lineage proud or sit freezing in the reluctance of the modern woman? However personal this question is, its layers are torn apart by friendly aunties and seething mothers, while the man is still framing it.
Whether the woman holds motherhood dear, is a question lost to our collective amnesia.
After all her womb is mightier than her brain, we hope. And all those hormones, if they won't hatch the egg, the heat of expectancy will fry them. God willing.
Sex-education might still be taboo but your marriage is the passport to your bedroom, for everyone. An empty score board by your first anniversary is forgivable, but by the second one you can feel the noose tightening. The pros will share a secret or two, however embarrassing. The concerned will enlighten you with the address of the 'reproduction gods' centre. The in-laws will lay out your biological secrets in a hope to save there off-spring from a misguided attack. And your concerned parents would pray for a plague to hit your job place.
Meanwhile, every child born in your immediate circle will have an uncanny resemblance to just one shape, 'question mark'. Every hello on your phone will eerily sound like 'when'. And every guest to your house will behave like an interrogation officer.
Holding your ground would depend on more than just how deep your sandal heels dig into the grass. Because not wanting a child, is a feeling meant to be as alien to the soft sex, as being friends with the frog is to the snake.
Succumb majority will, sooner or later. Because the most wonderful daughter-in-law is invisible and the best wife is a myth, if she's not a mother.
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