When I started dating my husband, I was amazed — and unnerved — by how easy everything seemed.
“This can’t be this good,” I’d say to my friends. “Help me figure out what’s wrong with him.”
When you’re me, and you don’t immediately spot something wrong, you dig deeper. When you’re me, when you can’t find a single valid worry, you manufacture them. When you’re me, you spend the year after those first fantastic months creating reasons to worry and then losing my shit over them.
I worried he’d be unhappy with my independence, annoyed by my neediness, unhappy because I was totally unlike anyone he’d ever dated. And because I saw my shit-losing reflected in his actions, I made them so.
Years later, I have baby lust. I said it.
I see babies and I coo. I am the one airline passenger hoping a kid gets the seat next to me. I’ve lost all ability to pretend I’m not entranced by other people’s children. And the angst I’m starting to write about? The “oh, no, I don’t know if this is the right time” stuff? Dangerous territory.
I was walking through the airport tonight after a full day of traveling — tired, empty, full of thoughts but too tired to think all at the same time — and suddenly I had clarity.
“This will be okay. I have baby lust. We’ll have babies. It will be okay.”
It’s not time, but the time is approaching. And that’s okay. I think I might finally be able to get from “here” to “there” without a lot of churn about “whether.” And part of answering the question of “when” is starting to accept “should” and “will.”
(This could make sense only to me. I’m writing this the same day — same hour — I had the thought. I’m tired, relieved to be home, and may or may not have gotten my arrival time totally wrong so my husband is having to come get me an hour early.)