baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tick Tock Tick Tock I decided a long time ago that I didn't want kids. I must have been in my preteens-certainly not old enough to fathom the mysteries of love and couplehood -when I made the decision regarding my offspring-or rather-my lack of offspring. I wish I could recall my exact reasons. I had a stable childhood-full of the same ups and downs as any average childhood-so I can't fly the flag of emotional trauma. I also don't remember coming across any abusive adults (or abused children for that matter) so I can't live vicariously through someone else's horror story. I do remember the streets of my hometown being horrifically crowded; bustling with sweaty humanity at every turn. I remember being towed through clogged sidewalks-seeing nothing but the butts and belt buckles of strangers-with my nanny's grip as the sole barrier between being lost and found. I've since become a tad claustrophobic. I don't mind being in a small room alone-but, put me in a tight crowd of people at say, a concert, and I begin to feel a hint of anxiety. So-maybe, my decision to not have kids grew out of my dislike for the overpopulated conditions of my preteen years. Who knows? I have enough trouble understanding my state of mind at 33, much less my of mind back when I was 6 or 7. For whatever the reasons, the decision stuck-and, even at 33, I find myself living fairly comfortably with my preteen conclusion. Fairly comfortably. All my friends have kids. Special events like birthdays and holidays, previously spent at maybe a concert or restaurant, are not as easy to arrange as they were before family seeds were sown and harvested. It's no longer just J, S and I. It's J, S and their babies and wives and I. The bridges of friendship no longer connect two points. Rather-they connect multiple points-little offshoots here and there. A one-year-old-here, a three-year-old there. And, sometimes (not all the time), after crossing one of these bridges, I hear the faint ticktock of a biological clock. It ticks when I see S's daughter-a beautiful and precocious angel of a girl with a personality that's equal amounts funny and endearing. It ticks when I see one of my friends living a rare moment of parenthood divine-the first bike ride, the first Christmas, the first day at the beach. Oh yeah. I hear it. Not often. But, I hear it. In fact, I hear it now. A month ago, I gave a presentation at an elementary school. It was career day and I came in to discuss my career and expound upon the importance of a college education. The usual adult stuff. Not all the kids tugged on the heartstrings-but a few did-specifically the little girl who begged me to draw a puppy-her big green eyes dancing as she drew out the one syllable pleeeeeeeeeessssssseeeeeee...in her efforts to get me to draw a Cocker Spaniel. She stole my heart. I fashioned a quick drawing of something that unfortunately looked more like a cow than a cocker spaniel, gave it to her, and left the school with that ticktockticktock ringing in my ears. I drove home from that day wondering if I made (or am making) the right decision. I stayed up that night worrying if, as a 60 or 70-year old, I'll find myself completely alone; a bitter old curmudgeon with no grandkids to share *when I was your age* stories with. Eventually the ticktock faded-replaced by the usual fare-girl-unit, music, computers, gardens etc. But, today, I received a manila envelope from that month ago elementary school. It was filled with thank you notes from various kids-all featuring the handwritten scrawls and scribbles of their young minds. *Thank you for showing us your drawings,* one said. Another said, *I loved the animated roller coaster.* One of the last letters in the pile came from a girl named Brittany. *Thanks for the cocker spaniel picture* she wrote. And, like magic, there she was clear in my memory. Green eyed and adorable. And ticktocking in my head yet again. 8:20 p.m. - 2001-04-24 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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