Not something I talk about much because it isn’t writing related, but it is life related, and it’s still pretty important to me–that being the fact that I didn’t get much of a chance at motherhood. I was one briefly–to two beautiful boys–but due to life and circumstance and choosing the greater good for their sake (god knows, it wasn’t and never has been for mine!!!), I lost out on the privilege of raising them. I am now surrounded by women on one side who don’t have children, either because they chose not to or couldn’t have them, and on the other side by women who have had them (or are still raising them), and I’m stuck in an emotional charybdis that kills me daily. I never had the opportunity to have any more children–never was with anyone who wanted them, or anyone who I actually felt comfortable creating another life with. It has not been fun, and now it’s too late. It’s pretty clear to me that that ship has sailed forever. There are no words for what that feels like…

So today while I sat in the laundromat, diligently working on my Anthropology reading assignment, a young girl came in with her grandmother. She wore wedge heels–faux suede, it looked like–very similar to a pair I have. I got up to get more quarters from the change machine, complimented the girl on her shoes, and then the machine and I argued about whether or not it was going to take my fiver. This young girl watched the struggle for a few minutes as she walked up and down the row of washing machines, pushing the opened doors closed with her body, one loud snap of the latch after another. She finally came to me and asked if she could try the change machine, stating that it sometimes behaved for her… It didn’t, but I managed to get the second machine to cough up the handful of two bits. I stated, “I guess we just had to warm it up!” to which she agreed with a grin. I went on to put my clothes into the dryers and she tagged along, striking up a conversation with me about stuff she’s found in the dryers in the past and things she’s left in her pockets and put through the wash, and of course her shoes–all intriguing to me, naturally. Once my clothing was tumbling, I resumed my place at a little table to continue working on my homework, pretty certain that the little girl had had her fill of me, such seems to be the attention span of kids. But she surprised me and sat at the table with me. I managed to engage her in about fifteen minutes of conversation about school and her favorite subjects (found out she’s in second grade), and how she hates art, except for when they paint. She loves gym and music, and there was a moment of hesitation when her grandmother called to her and said it was time to leave…

I woke up this morning hoping for something good to happen–a big win, because I keep taking the sucker punches in the gut instead of rolling with them–and on my drive to work, forced myself to list off each and every amazing thing that had happened since waking up. I’d come up with nine things along the drive–pretty good, considering. Meeting up with this little second grader blew all of that out of the water, and yet none of the nine things were any more complex or simple than meeting her. It’s really hard to explain to anyone what it’s like to be in my shoes when it comes to things involving children.  What it feels like to remember the loss. What it feels like to recognize the missing out. What it feels like to know that no legacy will follow me after I’m gone.

For the people who threw up roadblocks over the years, trying to tamper with my success, trying to steer me away from my books and my dreams–I hope they–of all people–read this. I hope they understand. I hope they really, truly grasp the reality that all the times my writing came up and I expressed my excitement and passion about it, it has been for the absolute and painful truth that, as a mother: my writing is all that I will ever have.