I woke up today and realized I’m old. I guess I was too sick for it to hit me a couple days ago, but this year is number 37. Just typing that feels surreal and causes a little bit of anxiety.
I’m actually really angry. I’m angry at my ex, but I’m mostly angry at myself.
Somehow I managed to get to 37 with no husband or kids or not really much of a career to speak of.
The no-kids I used to pride myself on. I was safe and took precautions… always. Now I find myself wondering if I should have just “slipped up” once or twice.
I’ve never really been a baby-fever kinda girl. Really. Just ask my sisters. I never ruled out kids, but I wasn’t dreaming of having a bunch of babies either. I actually don’t really like babies. Now when they’re walking and talking, thats more my speed.
But there was one thing I realized during my marriage. I want a child. Of my own.
And that is the biggest drawback in dating most men my age. Most of the men in my age range who want kids also want the springier chickens. The rest of the men in my age range already have all the kids the they want.. if they wanted kids at all.
I know I could be happy without kids. I know its a dream that if I had to, I could live without.
I could help raise his kids. I could do a lot of things and be happy with whatever comes.
But there’s this one thing.. and until I’m out of baby-making-age or its proven impossible for me to have a child of my own… its going to be there in the back of my mind.
I want a child. Of my own. And I’ll resent anyone who stands in the way of making that possible. Even myself.