Offspring

I dreamed about those two blond kids last night, the little ones who spent a term at L'Abri the last summer I worked there. They bunked with their dad in a bedroom beside my suite. Too young to remember they had to knock, they'd burst through my door hoping I'd read them a book, then cuddle up beside me on the couch. Meltdowns and laughter filtered through the wall between us.

The two-year-old boy was unusually cuddly; when I picked him up, he'd lean his head on my shoulder and grab the skin on my neck for comfort. One morning on the back porch stairs, he sat on my lap for a long time as we discussed what bugs might live under the bushes and whether they'd eat toast crusts. He once wandered out of his room where he'd been napping, a blanket wrapped around his head and over his face because he didn't want to see monsters. I stopped him before he could stumble blindfolded down the stairs.

The four-year-old girl was more spirited; her biggest meltdown occurred when she couldn't get a pair of fairy wings from Butterfly Gardens. Like me she loved pretty things; my first memory of her is her looking for a flower to put on the bookshelf to "make it beautiful". Once she tried to give me her favourite necklace; I told her I'd wear it for a day. She'd beg me to do the rhyming game I taught her, drawn on her back:

Dot, dot, line, line;
Spider crawling up your spine.
Crack an egg on your head;
Let it dribble 'til you're dead.
Tight squeeze, cool breeze;
Now you've got the shiveries!

When the kids left at the end of the term, I cried for days. I knew it might be years before I saw them again and they'd never be quite so small and sweet. I haven't seen them since.

I grew up with four younger siblings and worked in childcare for many years. I always assumed I'd have my own kids but never wanted to hold everyone's baby. I don't make the best first impression on kids. I didn't understand this as a kid, but adults can be shy of kids, too. It's not always easy to know how to break into their gaggle when you don't have a natural opportunity. Some people immediately shed any awkwardness, but often I freeze up then assume the kids think I don't care about them, which makes me even more awkward. Yet whenever I get one-on-one time with a kid, I enjoy it. It encourages my childlike silliness and sense of wonder.

This comes out more often when I visit friends with kids, as we get extended, intentional time together. My friend Mia said many of her friends don't know "how to baby", but I do. When I stay with Nathan and Hitomi, I always enjoy colouring or playing in the sand with their young daughter Emika. Once Emika and I sat watching The Sound of Music together; she loves "Do Re Mi" and wanted to watch it over and over. That's my mom's favourite movie, one we watched over and over too. It was sweet to share with Emika. Yet tears welled up as I thought, "I hoped I'd share this with my daughter."

I'm turning 38 in June. I don't mind getting older, really. I'm far happier now than I ever was in my 20s, when I was often lonely, angsty, and insecure. I still feel sad about being single, but I have such a rich life and friendships that I'm content in ways many married people aren't. I've never felt my life would be meaningless without children, and I certainly haven't desired the weird and gross parts of pregnancy some women seem to consider miraculous. Yet I wonder who'll be there beside me as I grow old.

My grandma's seven kids take it in turns to visit her so that she never spends an evening alone. She was widowed when I was three, then got remarried at 72 to a wonderful man who passed away six or seven years ago. She often told me, "You still have lots of time." Now she's losing her memory and her ability to articulate things, but whenever I visit, she still asks if I've met anyone. I know it's her way of saying she wants the best for me, but it brings tears to my eyes. She was once known for asking, "Too old? Too old for what?" but now when I tell her that, she says, "Too old for everything." At 99, she's my last living grandparent. I know she'll probably never meet a boyfriend of mine before she dies, let alone my children. For all I know, I could reach 99 and have a whirlwind romance in a care home. But I can't be 99 and make a baby.

When those little kids were at L'Abri, I realized I wanted this. I really wanted kids, despite their tantrums and messes. It gave me the final push out the door, knowing I couldn't stay at L'Abri and get married or have a family. But I have no control over how this plays out. I can do my best to take steps to be prepared, to be open. That's all. Sometimes I feel helpless, and anxiety rises around me as I think, "I'm not even online dating anymore. Am I throwing away my last years of opportunity?" But seven years of online dating just frustrated me. I want to enjoy my life rather than spend it swiping and engaging in inane small talk until I'm left wishing I could reproduce like an amoeba.

I sense time tightening its clamps on me. Soon enough, the decision will be made for me. That feels unfair. It cuts against my self-efficacy, my illusion that hard work will always pay off. A long time ago, I let go of purity culture's false promises that doing everything right would result in a sparkling relationship with the man of my dreams. I see many other amazing single women in my situation. Why should I be chosen if they're not? But I want to be chosen, anyways. I don't even know what I need anymore; now I pray, "I'm so tired of this. Just give me whatever you know I need."

I do believe God will make me fruitful, no matter what. That's the most important thing to me. I have a very special life that I constantly give thanks for and enjoy so much.  Theologically sound or not, sometimes I think God is to me like Hannah's husband Elkanah, who gave her a "double portion because he loved her" and because she wasn't able to have children. I rail against the concept of single people as "bare branches" and a woman's value being tied to pushing out babies. I love the communities I'm part of and the families who've welcomed me in. I have lots of plans and hope for my future.

My sister, younger by 12 years, is getting married this summer. I know she wants to have kids, and I love the idea of being an aunt. I could be a fun aunt; I could blow all your minds with how fun of an aunt I am. And I wouldn't have to deal with the most annoying bits. Raising kids is hard and opens you up to even more pain. I tell myself this, and it's true. I don't want people to pity me, because I'm so much more than what I lack.

But I still ache as my chance at a family of my own seems to retreat like the tide. I don't like feeling left behind. I don't want a fur baby replacement; cats and dogs don't carry the future of the world. They don't care about Owl at Home or The Sound of Music. I can't teach them to make cookies or string beads or drive a car. I want to build into the next generation. I want to create a home that welcomes new life and brings others into family, too.

Sometimes I find it painful to hear about another engaged or pregnant friend, hard to closely witness good parts of life that elude me. But it's all mixed together, the sorrow and the joy. There's no untangling the skeins; I have to knit double-stranded or not at all. I sleep under all of this at night. All of this is part of who I am: loose ends, dropped stitches, ragged bits, all I don't know what to make of yet. Just forward, forward I go, one row at a time, trusting as best I can there's a pattern to it all, that somehow God will "make it beautiful" in his time.