pregnancySingle, twenty-nine-year-old Helena Andrews wrote in a recent column for The Root that, with friends having babies and pressure from her mom, she’s actually starting to feel bad for her uterus.

“Up until right now, my uterus has been all but forgotten like a ghost limb, mentally amputated long ago because it got in the way of more important business. Like being awesome and putting together particle-board crap from IKEA. Or perhaps it’s simply grown limp from too little attention, locked away from the rest of Helena in the physiological equivalent of a dungeon—or purgatory. Official organs like my brain and, occasionally, my heart get full voting rights when it comes to personal legislation like, “Is this man really worth the trouble?” My uterus, however, is the District of Columbia of wombs, getting taxed out the wazoo with repeated inquests from my mother without the proper representation to defend itself. My anatomy, then, is a sort of aristocracy.”

I also find myself distracted by life and career, while simultaneously taking note that an increasing number of my facebook friends’ profile pictures are of (their) infants and toddlers. At what age, if maternal instincts haven’t kicked in or the stars haven’t aligned for a woman to have a child, should she apologize to her uterus and keep on moving?

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