I typed this whole thing, and then decided I wasn't going to post it. Until I saw that a friend wrote a thoughtful post, and I thought I might as well hop on the bandwagon and post away. My thoughts were jumbled when I wrote it, and I can't stop crying (a combination I'm sure of being reminded today just how much I miss my mom - especially on Holidays, and the fact that my hormones are so out of wack - I've been on my period for like three weeks. Straight. Obviously I'm a hormonal wreck). Anyway, me and emotions don't mix well, so some or all of this may be a jumbled mess.
When I grow up, I want to be blissfully happy. It dawned on me recently though, that I am no longer sure what that statement is going to entail. I am relatively certain that it is not going to include the white wedding dress, moderately-handsome husband, three little girls with bows in their hair, picket fence, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, and a porch swing that I had previously envisioned.
The "I want to be a mommy" thing is pretty non-negotiable. I want kids. Period. Ideally I'd like at least two of them to be genetically mine, but I am certainly not above adopting as well. And frankly, this is the one thing in my life that has remained a constant desire. Since forever. I was never one of those kids who knew what I wanted to be when I grew up (I thought I'd be a vet for a while, until I witnessed some surgeries and learned what it was like to watch a dog fall onto a table after being injected with the serum of death). And then I thought I would be a teacher - an idea I entertained until quite recently - until I realized that I really do not care enough for other peoples' children, I cuss like a trucker, and I would be teaching kids things that American public schools would not be thrilled about.
I was certain I would be married at twenty-three. Have three kids, at ages twenty-five, twenty-seven and twenty-nine. Be a stay-at-home mom. Well, I am twenty-seven, have no men on the horizon, and am beginning to wonder if I will ever have babies.
C'est la vie, I guess.
Instead of all of those things that I wanted, I am single. I live alone. I work at a piece-of-shit job that I wish I could quit (and am starting to regret not doing the school thing a while ago, so I could have a real job by now). For some reason, I cannot seem to get pregnant (going to the doctor soon, to try to figure out why). My extended family might as well be non-existent to me. I am not impressed one bit with some things that have gone on, some things that have been said to me, and the like. I have two or three true friends. And quite frankly, men piss me off. Perhaps it is just because I have not met the right man. Perhaps it is because I just hang out with jackasses sometimes. But damn.
I spent more time crying this weekend than I have in a while, and I am not entirely sure why. I think I need to sit down, make a plan, and follow through. I am not sure what that plan will entail (probably something about how to get a better job, and how to raise a baby on my own - and how to go about getting pregnant).
When the hell did I become a grownup and have to start dealing with grownup issues? I am really not liking this. And I am really not liking the fact that I have no real family to talk to. I realized today after a nice long chat with the lovely Beth that I kind of think I need to distance myself from the family (which is going to be a blessing in the long run), and do my own thing. So why is it so hard to accept?