Earlier I posted about it being two years. Two official years. And I promised to come back and talk more about it. After some processing and general what the fuck’ing. You know. As a kid, as a teenager, I wasn’t interested in having kids anytime soon. I called people with that aim in life breeders. Not to be hurtful. But because clearly that was what they wanted from life.
Not me.
I thought I wanted a lot of things. Most it turns out I didn’t. I tried what I tried and did what I did and two years ago I decided it was my time for kids. And it happened. And then, it didn’t. And now I wonder if I even care anymore. I want my Hubby. He wants kids. Pretty badly now, the clucky old dear. And I want him to have everything he wants in this life.
I used to hurt. I used to watch others fall pregnant and have babies and it would tear my heart into little pieces. I would be in physical pain for longing. And now. Now I’m different. A scary sort of who cares world that buffers me from that wrenching pain. I think. I sometimes think I don’t even want it anymore. I have a tendency to do that.
I want Italy. I want to achieve the weight loss goal I am taking ground on {10kg, hello!!}. I want to sleep in late. And wake up in the arms of my Hubby, just the two of us. I want to drop everything and go away for the weekend or visit friends or stay out all night dancing. I want freedom and money in the bank and beautiful clothes and things.
BUT I desperately want to know my children. The ones I know are out there waiting for me. Waiting for their time. Our time. My time. But I guess because I don’t know, I don’t miss it. How can I? Mother’s. Parent’s. They all say that they didn’t know love. Or life. Or anything until they had children.
So what would I know. I’m still waiting.
Happy {fuck you} two years to me.
And longer to hubby who waited for me to be ready for years before that.
Suger 
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