I'm beginning to love this house.
(The pool, by the way, is thirty two by sixteen feet. I had Keith go out and measure it for real, because a hundred feet did seem excessive, when I thought about it. That would be super cool, though. *grin*)
Every once in a while, it hits me. I'm living in Georgia, I think to myself. Holy crap. How did that happen?
Doesn't life seem like that though? Life just keeps on happening, in the most unexpected ways.
One day, I woke up and realized I'm thirty three years old. Thirty three years old, for goodness sake, and living in Georgia. And married, no less. And my husband is really in love with me and shows off in the pool and looks adorable soaking wet.
This fall I'll be thirty four. I was looking at a fertility graph while researching IUI the other day. I'm falling off the cliff of fertility. I'm riding the short, sweet curve of biological reproduction; it's about to leave me rolling in the surf, bruised, sandy and with no viable eggs.
I resent it, to be honest. Exactly why, I don't know- it's not personal. I'm trying not to worry about it. I can't control what will happen. I can't even anticipate it, so I might as well push it out of my mind.
That's what I did with the move, and you know what? I would do it again. I'd ride that river all the way to the sandy delta, that place of five days without furniture and a move without a house.
Because worrying about it before hand wouldn't have changed a thing. Not one thing. And if I had forced myself to think clearly about the move, I would have ruined those two or three weeks of peace and obsessing about my story. And I wouldn't have been able to get that time back.
I'm incredibly blessed; it occured to me, recently. I have a home, and food in the pantry, and money to the pay the bills, and Georgia weather in late April, which is beautiful, and a husband who still looks at me the way he did when we were first falling in love. He's my best friend.
I have so many blessings, I can't even count them all. And the thing about children, is that we only imagine that it's a given, that we'll have them. We imagine this when we're younger, when things are given to us all the time. We imagine this, because for most people, it works out that way.
But it isn't a given. Not much in life is. They're all just gifts. Often times we don't know why we're given the gifts we have. Sometimes we don't know what to do with them. Sometimes we want other people's gifts.
And that's ok, that's only human. And it won't mar my life if I can't conceive. I imagine I'll mourn. Maybe intensely, for a while there, when I go through menopause, or when my adopted children get pregnant, and have biological children of their own.
But there's always going to be periods of mourning in life. And we just don't get everything in life that we want. I keep coming back to this, in my own mind. It's oddly liberating to realize.