So here’s a thing:
Last night I was at dinner with a friend and said, parenthetically, “…since I’m not having children…” which really makes it sound like, well, I’m not having children.
I’ve made similar statements, to friends and to myself and I’ll be the first to admit that there are times when I have not just noted that I am childless, but reveled in it. The quiet car on the train is nice, y’all. It’s quiet. And less crowded. I have this pretty nice life, sans a child. Especially now that I’m not miserably in the midst of trying to create said nonexistent child. I’ve spent a good bit of time this summer with people who also don’t have children and are not trying to get/have/make any right now. It’s…. nice. Actually really nice.
And yet. This morning I was having coffee with another friend – Sophie’s mama if you must know – who mentioned in the context of something else that she’d gotten pregnant at 42. And my first thought was, “well, damn, I’ve got two years left!” And then I rolled my eyes at myself. Because: no money, no sperm, no embryos left. You’ll all (two of you) remember that. But, still, my first thought was that I still had time.
This is not some “Woo! I’m Trying Again!” post. Because I am not. It’s more a “How Can I Hold Two Seemingly Opposing Feelings At The Same Time?” post. But who’d title a post that? Not me, clearly.
A couple weeks ago, I was at the beach (oh, the beach….) with a bunch of other gay people. Wow, the beach. So great. And yay! Gay people! Gay people who are not now, nor ever were, trying to have children. And, wow, was that a nice and unexpected bonus of the trip. I said as much, I think. And, still, I’d catch myself watching the children on the beach, sometimes wishing one of them was mine. I didn’t say much of anything about that. It was so great to be there and not have a child with me. It was hard/sad/something to see other people having a thing I always thought I’d have.
There’s no conclusion to this post.