I grew up the eldest in an extremely volatile household, out of immense love and deep necessity I began to take care of my siblings. This was the beginning of my desire for my own family — a desire rooted in “re-doing” the errors of my parents which, even at that age, I knew should not have happened.
Now I’m on the cusp of turning 30 and the first inklings of that maternal desire have been distilled into a tiny pebble I transfered from pocket to pocket on thousands of days since then. Sometimes it has been little more than a memory of past feelings; on those days when I am destroyed by my painful history and reduced to a tense fear of “passing on” the legacy of my childhood. Other times I am joyful and highly optimistic; I cite the love I have given, freely, unconditionally, warmly, and without abuse to the many children I have cared for professionally as a nanny and autism professional. On those days I think, why should I not have my own child to love?
Then this year I found the pebble. Suddenly it was luminous, large, and impossible to tuck back away.
