“Do you have kid?” The dental hygienist asked me in broken English as she walked me to the little station where I sit with someone who’ll give me a free toothbrush and toothpaste and tell me they’ll see me again in six months. “No.” My brain is whirring – I think I’ve responded too quickly, so I hurriedly follow it up with “I love them though. I love babies and kids.”
We joke about the baby’s gender – a girl, they’re better. Of course, I agreed – they are. I wish her luck with the rest of her pregnancy and she leaves with a quick smile.
I always saw myself as a parent. I dreamt of brown babies, kept a list of names for a dream. And as woeful as that sounds, now that my identity has shifted and as the reality of that slim possibility have become more concrete- I’m okay.
It’s been difficult for me to talk about – more because I know that people know just how much I adore children and those closer to me know that it was never a matter of not wanting.
People never seem to stop asking married people about when kids are coming & having to say they aren’t and seeing their crestfallen faces was so hard, that sometimes I just lied.
Life never goes according to your plans. Never. But that’s okay, I’m okay.