When I reached the age my mother had been when she gave birth to me, I felt—as most people do—a sense of shock. Twenty-four years old was far too young to have a child! Even more distressing was the fact that at the age of twenty-seven, my mother and father were the proud parents of three little girls. At that age, I was living alone in my studio apartment in Hollywood without health insurance. My boyfriend and I had been dating for about two years and the only way a baby would have factored into my life successfully would have been if the child had agreed to live in my walk-in closet and split the utilities. Clearly, I had chosen a vastly different path than the one followed by my parents.

I had always suspected that I wanted to have kids. At my father’s funeral, I realized this suspicion had developed into a full-blown assertion, but with no particular time frame in mind. At the age of twenty-four, I was still job-hopping and in the midst of a breakup that probably should have taken place shortly after graduating from college, but which dragged on out of comfort and familiarity. But I WAY DIGRESS. It was when I realized that yes, I did want to get married (to someone…eventually) and have babies with whomever that may be that it hit me. Holy crap, I thought, it might not be ticking, but the existence of my biological clock had been confirmed. The feeling was much like discovering a vital use for my tonsils or spleen—one that had previously not been made obvious to me.

My mother and I have had long conversations about the choice I’ve made to pursue a career first vs. starting a family first. As a woman who became focused on her career full-time only after she had raised her children, she looks at the benefits I enjoy as a result of my youth and independence with a twinge of envy. As a person whose grass isn’t necessarily as green as it appears, I am quick to remind her that the stability of the family life I eventually plan on pursuing is as of yet out of reach. Sacrifices have been made on my part as well, as a result of my ambition.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually quite happy with the way my life has played out. As the only unmarried daughter, I found myself taking on the role of an only child in the households of both my younger-but-married sisters as well as my mother’s. I’m not expected to own things like patio furniture, matching plates or gravy bowls and I take full advantage of that fact.

But back to my original question: How does this whole “biological clock ticking” thing work anyways? When would I know when I was ready to procreate? My mother can’t provide much insight because she’d already popped out three kids before she’d even had a chance to let her clock wind up. Before we were born, she thought she’d like to try having pet monkeys in preparation of committing to taking care of some human babies.

As a total nerd, I like to imagine it happens much the way that the four of the final five Cylon models discovered their true identities. One day, you have this song—much like a lullaby—that echoes in your head over and over until you realize that the original mission you set out to accomplish is pretty much null and void. With a new directive in mind, you either try to find a way to reconcile your previous trajectory to accommodate your new goal or you toss your ass out of the airlock.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.