How I feel about kids is sort of how I feel about hair plugs or tattoos. They are nice enough, but I
just can’t imagine them for myself. My plans for children don’t extend beyond the fact that I know, at some point in my life, I will want some. That and that they’ll be wearing striped leggings and the mini Crocs I’m saving for them in my closet (just in case Crocs is out of business by then). This is the extent of my motherly instincts. It’s strange because it doesn’t feel anything like my other life plans, like owning a house; wanting to have kids isn’t at all like wanting to own a house.
When I think about owning a house, I imagine eating heirloom tomato salads under tiny white string lights in my backyard (something lovely, something like this), cooking breakfast in a gigantic, warm, open space kitchen and staying up late doing nothing in particular in a cozy living room. I can even imagine the smells, the furniture, the feeling. But when I think about having kids, all that goes through my head is reruns of The Brady Bunch — kids that aren’t mine and a mom who is not me.
It wasn’t until last week that I got my first taste of something that may be my emerging motherly instincts. It was after yoga last week when I went over to DJ’s to do the usual of eating and drinking of things in their fridge. I parked in the back of their complex, walked the mile or so in the dark to their apartment, and on the way, pulled out my iPhone and started playing Sally’s Salon. Half way to their place, I realized with a panic that I was so engrossed time managing her salon, I hadn’t been fully aware of my surroundings. Alone and in the dark, wild thoughts started running through my head. Someone could have beaten me up, someone could have kicked me in the shins and tore my car keys out of my hand, someone could have stolen my iPhone.
Then, when leaving work on Friday night, I found my arms over loaded with jackets, books, magazines, a water bottle and on top of all that, my iPhone. I had it all handled until I reached for the car door handle and, horror of horrors, my iPhone tumbled off the pile and skidded across the parking lot. I sucked in a breath so sharp and so fast, I thought a rib might break. My hand shot up to cover my mouth and a fear I had never felt before filled me. I couldn’t look, I couldn’t bear to see it… was it broken? was it… shattered? And worst of all, was I the cause of that? After regaining some composure, I braved a peek and to my utter relief, it was all in one piece. I picked it up, rubbed the pavement marks off of it’s case and kissed it. Then I put it on the passenger seat and promised it I would never let it go like that ever again.
Is this just the start of it? How did you know when you wanted kids? Does something just click on one day?