Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Roads diverged in a yellow wood
So it's been a while. In my defense, it's been crazy busy in the world of freshmen composition. Teaching 5 sections of writing means a lot of planning and even more grading. But one of the semesters ends this week, and the other two are in the home stretch of final writing assignments and projects, so there's not a lot to be done on my end at this very second. There certainly will be in the next few weeks, though, when I start getting all of the papers to grade. Joy.
The hubby and I have been doing a lot of thinking lately. A lot of thinking about whether we're ready to start expanding our family. Read: Holly is thinking about having kids. GASP.
I know, I know; those of you who have known me for a while may well be shocked by that statement from the girl who proclaimed for most of her life that she never wanted kids. It's not that I dislike children, I actually think children are amazing little people; rather, it's that I've always felt like I don't have the temperment to be a mother. Truthfully, I feel like I'm too selfish of a person to give up so many things that I LOVE for kids. I'm afraid that eventually, I'll regret or resent having to sacrifice things for those little bundles of joy It's a tough argument to have with yourself because it's one of those things you never really understand until you become a parent. Will the selfishness go away?
I have friends with new children who assure me that it will. But most of those friends are people that have always, always, always known that they wanted to be parents. I'm not like that. There's a lot that I want to do, a lot I want to experience, that would be interrupted by kids, and it would be unfair to them, because they wouldn't have all of me, 100%.
I have a feeling that any of my motherly friends that read this will offer advice and reassurance. Thoughts about how it doesn't feel like you're "giving up" anything, or that you don't have to "lose yourself" to become a mother. But that's not really what this is about.
I see little babies, with their baby-powder smell and big, innocent smiles and I want one. I really, really do. I want to hold that little darling in my arms and wait for the day he/she first utters "Mommy." I want to bandage their skinned knees, bake them cookies on the weekend, read to them at night, teach them to ride a bike, dance in the kitchen with a toddler in my arms to a made-up song I'm humming, knowing that nothing in the world could be more important than moments like those.
I want to be like my Mom. I want to tell them made-up stories about Mickey Mouse when they can't sleep, sing them made-up songs about their lives, hold them when they come home from school crying because some bully picked on them, assure them that everything will be okay. I want that. I really do.
But then there's the logic side of my brain that says. No. You don't want that. How could you want to bring a life into this world, knowing what a mess it is? What if you leave your children in a world that worse than the one you're in now? Can you live with that? What about all of the orphaned or abandoned children in the world, wishing and needing a Mom? How selfish is it to want one that's made from me, when there a millions of kids without love and happiness in their lives?
What about traveling? I wouldn't feel right dumping my kids off on one of the Grandmas, and taking off for 2 weeks to see Europe like I've always wanted to do. That's a non-negotiable goal for my life. I will go to Europe. I will visit Ireland, and Britain, and Spain, and Italy, and Austria, and Germany, and Denmark, and a dozen other places in between. Small children not only would hinder the things I want to do there, but they also wouldn't enjoy the trip to its fullest advantage. I'm not willing to give this up. And I don't want to do it when I'm 50. I want to do it in the next 5-7 years.
And what about school? I'm planning on moving away in the next 18 months, to pursue another degree. I don't want to have kids so far away from my Mom. I need my Mom. I want my Mom around. I don't want to have a baby, and then move thousands of miles away, where my parents and in laws can't see their grandbabies grow up and lose their teeth, go to kindergarden, graduate from high school. I know once we move away from Quincy, we won't move back. The only job for my husband in the area is the one he's got now, and once he leaves, he won't want to go back. And there's not a lot for me here, either. Not in the field I'm choosing. So who knows where I'll be in 4 years.
I'm a point in my life where the path hasn't forked. It's branched into a dozen different paths, all offering some things I want, and delaying or removing others. I'm at war with all of these different desires, some whose pull is so much stronger than others. If I take one path, will I be able to go back to this point, and choose another one? What if it alters so much that I lose something?
There are a hundred different cliches about life. Life isn't fair. Life is an adventure. Life's a bitch and then you die. Life is what you make it.
Life is a map. With a thousand different places to start and a thousand ways to get to a thousand different places. Sooner or later, I'll have to choose a direction, or face ending up in a cornfield. (I live in Illinois, what can I say?)
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The hubby and I have been doing a lot of thinking lately. A lot of thinking about whether we're ready to start expanding our family. Read: Holly is thinking about having kids. GASP.
I know, I know; those of you who have known me for a while may well be shocked by that statement from the girl who proclaimed for most of her life that she never wanted kids. It's not that I dislike children, I actually think children are amazing little people; rather, it's that I've always felt like I don't have the temperment to be a mother. Truthfully, I feel like I'm too selfish of a person to give up so many things that I LOVE for kids. I'm afraid that eventually, I'll regret or resent having to sacrifice things for those little bundles of joy It's a tough argument to have with yourself because it's one of those things you never really understand until you become a parent. Will the selfishness go away?
I have friends with new children who assure me that it will. But most of those friends are people that have always, always, always known that they wanted to be parents. I'm not like that. There's a lot that I want to do, a lot I want to experience, that would be interrupted by kids, and it would be unfair to them, because they wouldn't have all of me, 100%.
I have a feeling that any of my motherly friends that read this will offer advice and reassurance. Thoughts about how it doesn't feel like you're "giving up" anything, or that you don't have to "lose yourself" to become a mother. But that's not really what this is about.
I see little babies, with their baby-powder smell and big, innocent smiles and I want one. I really, really do. I want to hold that little darling in my arms and wait for the day he/she first utters "Mommy." I want to bandage their skinned knees, bake them cookies on the weekend, read to them at night, teach them to ride a bike, dance in the kitchen with a toddler in my arms to a made-up song I'm humming, knowing that nothing in the world could be more important than moments like those.
I want to be like my Mom. I want to tell them made-up stories about Mickey Mouse when they can't sleep, sing them made-up songs about their lives, hold them when they come home from school crying because some bully picked on them, assure them that everything will be okay. I want that. I really do.
But then there's the logic side of my brain that says. No. You don't want that. How could you want to bring a life into this world, knowing what a mess it is? What if you leave your children in a world that worse than the one you're in now? Can you live with that? What about all of the orphaned or abandoned children in the world, wishing and needing a Mom? How selfish is it to want one that's made from me, when there a millions of kids without love and happiness in their lives?
What about traveling? I wouldn't feel right dumping my kids off on one of the Grandmas, and taking off for 2 weeks to see Europe like I've always wanted to do. That's a non-negotiable goal for my life. I will go to Europe. I will visit Ireland, and Britain, and Spain, and Italy, and Austria, and Germany, and Denmark, and a dozen other places in between. Small children not only would hinder the things I want to do there, but they also wouldn't enjoy the trip to its fullest advantage. I'm not willing to give this up. And I don't want to do it when I'm 50. I want to do it in the next 5-7 years.
And what about school? I'm planning on moving away in the next 18 months, to pursue another degree. I don't want to have kids so far away from my Mom. I need my Mom. I want my Mom around. I don't want to have a baby, and then move thousands of miles away, where my parents and in laws can't see their grandbabies grow up and lose their teeth, go to kindergarden, graduate from high school. I know once we move away from Quincy, we won't move back. The only job for my husband in the area is the one he's got now, and once he leaves, he won't want to go back. And there's not a lot for me here, either. Not in the field I'm choosing. So who knows where I'll be in 4 years.
I'm a point in my life where the path hasn't forked. It's branched into a dozen different paths, all offering some things I want, and delaying or removing others. I'm at war with all of these different desires, some whose pull is so much stronger than others. If I take one path, will I be able to go back to this point, and choose another one? What if it alters so much that I lose something?
There are a hundred different cliches about life. Life isn't fair. Life is an adventure. Life's a bitch and then you die. Life is what you make it.
Life is a map. With a thousand different places to start and a thousand ways to get to a thousand different places. Sooner or later, I'll have to choose a direction, or face ending up in a cornfield. (I live in Illinois, what can I say?)
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
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