Stop Telling Me To Have More Kids

By Raakhee Mirchandani for Elle Magazine

Things never seem to move fast enough. People in the street walk too slowly. I always call a restaurant at least twice between the time the order is placed and my buzzer actually rings and no matter how hard I try, it takes me less than five minutes to inhale my lunch, each lettuce leaf hurtling like an express train down my throat. It's not ladylike, but it's effective.

So when I had my daughter and people—nearly every single person—would hold my arm and tell me to, "enjoy it because it all goes by so fast," I couldn't help but feel a smug sense of relief. Fast is the only speed I'm comfortable with. Bring it on.

But there's a fine line between fast and frenetic, a point at which things start to spiral. And that's the point I passed when my then-seven-month-old daughter was hospitalized and needed surgery. Nearly five months later, she was diagnosed with cancer. Her stage 1 neuroblastoma required two surgeries, a couple hospital stays, a feeding tube, and months of careful watching but, thankfully, no chemo or radiation. It was quick by cancer standards and relatively painless.