I can’t do anything about the ambivalence but acknowledge it. maybe I am too old. maybe too irresponsible or neurotic, too self-involved, flawed in a thousand, a hundred thousand ways. maybe I will worry myself to death. perhaps 100% of me is not entirely convinced that parenthood is the best course– no more staying up late noodling just for the hell of it, no more morning lassitude or wide open spaces of minutes to ponder the dilemma of self– god, I want a baby. it’s that bald, at times. at times, it is that basic, the desire to grow beyond the self, to forge a family alongside another thinking/feeling favorite person. it’s ridiculous, really– I can speak blatantly about my desire for a dog, but to admit my yearning to be a mother feels somehow unmentionable, awkward, at this point, in some lights, pathetic. it is a lot to admit. so dreams have spoken the truth I cannot utter for years– the fears and desires. I can’t bear witnessing my changing, aging body, because it heralds the passing of possibility. it’s not all I’ve ever wanted, and honestly many days I fear I’ve accomplished so little– but this one thing, on the verge of being taken from me, seems regrettable, if missed. I know there are a lot of ways to parent, many many valid ways. I have considered several of them, as alternatives. but the chance may not yet be gone to carry my own child in my body, concocted from parts of both of us– what a wonder! brilliant. I want that. I don’t want the opportunity to pass, in the course of things.
I realize this is a lot. I struggle with knowing I’m inclined to say too much, so I say nothing and end up feeling unbearably lonely and unconnected. I must write my heart or risk falling entirely to pieces. it’s a little sloppy, but the only thing that works.