7. Interlude: Today & September 11, 2001
Perhaps it is all getting too philosophical so I’ll bring my story back more to the now as much of the book, heretofore, has been recollection. My husband’s younger brother and his girlfriend had a baby yesterday. Today’s my mom’s birthday. One of my closest childhood friends who now lives in Utah (and no, she’s not Mormon although she is blonde) had a baby boy less than four weeks ago. So much reproduction!
I’ve lived these many years never getting pregnant or having a child. Why? After the pristine sky of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, was obscured by burning jet fuel and the blood of too many, I thought to myself: What if I had died today? What is there in the trajectory of a “normal” life that I’d like to have or experience? With that simple question, the obvious resolutions of traveling more, reaching out to friends more, maintaining relationships better, solidifying and fostering them, etc., popped into my mind. Stop being so lazy and get writing. Go to South America. Adopt a homeless animal. These are obvious.
One evening, walking home from work in the darkness of an early fall early evening, navigating Manhattan south, from the Flatiron Building on 23rd Street between Fifth and Broadway, en route to Attorney Street, a street many people doubt is located on Manhattan Island but that slices its own into Alphabet City, I was listening to NPR as was my habit. I spotted blue beams of light coursing heavenward from Ground Zero, one of the first nights they were illuminated.
It was dark, still evening although that darkness of early fall seemed sort of welcome that year. A darkness both literal and metaphorical, actual and emotional. Something to crawl into and cuddle beneath. A haven in a suddenly very unsafe world. That was the night, with the blue beams just above my right eyebrow, dangling in my peripheral vision that I said to myself, you know, I would like to have a child. I was 24 at the time.
Do I seem dense, not very self-aware? Maybe. What I mean to say is that before this evening, having a child was an abstract notion. Something like, “Yea, family’s are great and helpful. They’re fun. You can depend on them and it’s nice to have them around on Turkey Day and Christmas and all that.” I’m trivializing things.
But, I never really articulated to myself that I’d like to have a child and, now here I am nearly six years later, Jill’s had a gorgeous little man that her tabby cats and terrier mix guard zealously. Carlos and his girlfriend just welcomed a little one into their lives and what have I done? Gone to Peace Corps and Krakow. Got my MA and went dancing. Bar hopping in Guatemala City and hanging in the law school quad while writing about the domestication of the dog for my archaeology requirement at George Washington University. What’s that all about?
Today, I wonder if I’ve made any progress in terms of that thought from not quite six years ago.
I’ve lived these many years never getting pregnant or having a child. Why? After the pristine sky of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, was obscured by burning jet fuel and the blood of too many, I thought to myself: What if I had died today? What is there in the trajectory of a “normal” life that I’d like to have or experience? With that simple question, the obvious resolutions of traveling more, reaching out to friends more, maintaining relationships better, solidifying and fostering them, etc., popped into my mind. Stop being so lazy and get writing. Go to South America. Adopt a homeless animal. These are obvious.
One evening, walking home from work in the darkness of an early fall early evening, navigating Manhattan south, from the Flatiron Building on 23rd Street between Fifth and Broadway, en route to Attorney Street, a street many people doubt is located on Manhattan Island but that slices its own into Alphabet City, I was listening to NPR as was my habit. I spotted blue beams of light coursing heavenward from Ground Zero, one of the first nights they were illuminated.
It was dark, still evening although that darkness of early fall seemed sort of welcome that year. A darkness both literal and metaphorical, actual and emotional. Something to crawl into and cuddle beneath. A haven in a suddenly very unsafe world. That was the night, with the blue beams just above my right eyebrow, dangling in my peripheral vision that I said to myself, you know, I would like to have a child. I was 24 at the time.
Do I seem dense, not very self-aware? Maybe. What I mean to say is that before this evening, having a child was an abstract notion. Something like, “Yea, family’s are great and helpful. They’re fun. You can depend on them and it’s nice to have them around on Turkey Day and Christmas and all that.” I’m trivializing things.
But, I never really articulated to myself that I’d like to have a child and, now here I am nearly six years later, Jill’s had a gorgeous little man that her tabby cats and terrier mix guard zealously. Carlos and his girlfriend just welcomed a little one into their lives and what have I done? Gone to Peace Corps and Krakow. Got my MA and went dancing. Bar hopping in Guatemala City and hanging in the law school quad while writing about the domestication of the dog for my archaeology requirement at George Washington University. What’s that all about?
Today, I wonder if I’ve made any progress in terms of that thought from not quite six years ago.
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