I have been watching big love, an hbo series about a polygamist family. I have no desire to gain a sister wife, but somehow the show is making me come to grips with my residual yearning for a big family. My best friend in late elementary school came from a Mormon family. she had 3 brothers and sisters when we met, 4 and 5 by the time they moved away. I loved going to their house. Loved it.
Not Mrs. T was all hugs and kisses all the time. Even for me. I remember vividly one evening, when her daughter and I were in sleeping bags in her living room and I was sad because a certain boy didn’t like me, that she promised me one day some boy out there would appreciate my high cheek bones, and that it was ok, really, that I had gotten my period already.
I want my house to be the one all the kids want to come to, and to be the mom my child/ren and their friends can talk to. I loved the chaos of the Ts’ child-centered home.
Anyway. I will not have 6 children. I may not even ever have two living children. I suck for lamenting that already when here I am with my living child. I am incredibly lucky. But I am only human and I have been very sad sometimes these past few weeks about it. Not all the time, but enough that I need to vent.
It is spring and in this town that means there are pregnant women all over. I was standing on a corner the other day and realized that there were 6 other women in sight and all of them had visible pregnant bellies. My heart twisted, even though I was standing there with my son in his stroller. That is ridiculous.
Even if I had a uterus or a cervix that functioned well without assistance, or without a random lightning strike, I wouldn’t have had 6 children. So it’s not the large family issue. It’s the question of will I ever even have 2. That’s a question I don’t even need to think about right now, and I don’t all that often. But sometimes, sometimes already it is plaguing me.