Throughout my entire 20’s and a dip into my early 30’s, I was basically obsessed with the idea of my future children.
I thought about them all. The. Time. I’d rehearse the values I would instill them with, like,
Trust your inner voice, even if it causes people to be disappointed in you.
And, there’s nothing about you that will ever be broken.
And, hurt people hurt people, it’s not about you.
And, when it doubt, choose love. You hear me child?
And I had this mental collage of experiences I would share with them, like, wildflowers fields in the springtime, and live theatrical performances. I’d take them to see where and by whom and how their food is grown, and get them involved is some type of martial arts. We’d meditate and stretch as a family, do service work together and make up stories and rhymes and songs and dances in all our spare time.
I didn’t go as far to pick out names for my yet to be born babes, though I would certainly take pause when I drove past a street sign or saw a word in a book that felt resonating for that potential. I kind of regret not keeping a list of those.
Then one day, within the last year or two, I stopped thinking about my babies. Well, I more started thinking about babies with a much broader view, one that included the immensity of that commitment. That responsibility. Or more like, RESPONSIBILITY. The biggest one ever. And the constant tugging on the heartstrings, sometimes like a gentle pluck of a harp, and other times, snapped right off, flung wide open.
I’m not sure I’m actually down for that size (breadth, width and depth) of a job. As beautiful and tempting and tender and dear as my fantasies made it out to be for 15 years.
I don’t actually know how this is going to play out (and I’m very grateful for that), but as far as today goes, having kids is certainly not a hell yes, which makes it a no, according to a life philosophy I like to practice.
And so, with this newish development of not minding whether or not I end up with kids, I recently got to questioning what all those years of daydreaming were for. As it’s starting to shape up that decade-and-a-half’s worth collection of values and experiences wasn’t for my future babies after all. Turns out, they were for me! I’m finding out that I’m the baby that needs regular reminding that I’m not broken, and when in doubt choose love, and wildflowers are a priority during their bloom, so get your booty frolicking in some fields, child.
It means that all those places that I wanted to take my children were the places that I want to go. And all of the teachings I wanted to instill upon them to enrich their characters were the ways that I wanted to be.
So now I have this fabulous opportunity to experiment with the art of parenting and babying myself. ‘Cause, those are some damn important jobs, and somebody’s gotta do them.
To all the parents out there, you have my whole-hearted respect. Bless your brave and mighty souls.