I’m going to buck my usual trend and write when I’m feeling good. The weather is freakishly gorgeous, with the trees all blooming in late February (and a lot of those blooms still hanging on), I’m making a huge Thai chicken salad to take to a friend’s house, and she and her husband have a delightful daughter named Ivy who’s just kind of on my space cadet wavelength — and she has Girl Scout cookies, some of which will soon be mine.
I’m editing a thriller about a war between Israel and Iran and can hardly believe I’m being paid to do it. My husband is loving his new job and bursting with ideas for the future. I’m getting very close to finishing my novel and feeling pretty good about it. The feedback I’ve gotten about it so far has been encouraging.
And I gotta admit, much as I’d rather be growing a baby, I’m pretty stoked to start up the spring soccer season and get to play pickup games in the park and full-field games with my rec team.
Oh, and I’m eating ripe blackberries.
I take a walk along the river almost every night — have ever since we moved to Tulsa three years ago — and there’s always been something bittersweet about it, because I keep thinking, “Next year I’ll be pushing a stroller on this walk.” And every year I’m wrong. I keep thinking, “In three years, my toddler is going to be asking me questions about the birds and the moon.” But that magical date just keeps getting pushed off and pushed off.
I want to share that walk with someone. And not just anyone. Someone innocent, someone who’s family, someone who belongs to me. Not in an ownership kind of way, but in a “We’re joined forever” kind of way.
And it’s hard not to feel impatient when something so incredible seems to recede into the horizon, disappear into smoke, year after year after year.
But I finally just recently started to find a little bit of chill about that. Not in a “giving up” kind of way, but in a “This is my life and my kids will come when they come, probably sooner than later” kind of way. I might not be quite as young and pretty and vital as I hoped I would be when it happens, and we might end up with fewer years together than I would choose, if I had a choice. And that’s something to mourn — and then move on from.
Anyway, somehow I don’t feel quite so beaten by this. For the moment anyway, it’s not quite a constant pain. It’s in the back of my mind. It’s a thing. But life is good, and there’s every reason to hope things may actually be even better if I can just hold out another year or two.
And there is a lot to enjoy in the meantime, if I can just remember, and not spend too much time focusing on what’s missing, even if it is the “main dish” (as my husband put it).
(Of course, I teased him and said, “Hey, I thought I was the main dish.” He started to sputter and backpedal a bit, and I laughed and said, “Just kidding. I know exactly what you mean.”)
So here’s (still, and not quite as miserably) hoping.
P.S. A writer on another blog put it very simply: Some of us just have to work harder to build our families than others.