When I grow up...

Grandma liked to tell a particular story. I can’t remember how many times I heard it – it could have been once and just stuck with me or could have been multiple times that encoded it into memory.

“When Aunt was little,” Grandma said, “she was sitting in school one day. The teacher asked them to go around the room and tell what they wanted to be when they grew up.

“Aunt came home that day and was so sad. She told me about how everyone had made fun of her. How they’d laughed and laughed when she told what she wanted to do with her life.” Grandma shook her head disapprovingly and said I could be anything I wanted to be. And if anyone teased me? Well, they were just wrong. I was smart and special and strong. Beautiful and loving and kind. Like a princess, only better. (Grandma loved me a tremendous amount – I still miss her terribly.)

I miss having a constant source of support. Someone who rarely told me I was wrong. She simply offered comfort and love. Smiled gently and kissed my forehead. Radiated gentle confidence that things would work out because I deserved good things. God loved me and would care for me. It would all be OK.

I was thinking about Aunt recently after my first appointment with Dr. Counselor. He asked what I would like to be doing if I could be doing anything at all.

“That’s the thing.” I said, exasperated with myself. “I just don’t know! I think… I guess…” Then I twisted my mouth and thought – I want to be alive. I like myself, think the world is ridiculously funny and remarkably fascinating. So if I could have anything – do anything – what would I want?

I found myself making a statement similar to what Aunt said as a child, standing proudly in a classroom to take her turn.

“I want to get married.” She said with a smile, for she wanted to do what her mother did. What she saw as profoundly important and loving and right. “I want to be a mother and a wife.”

I’m afraid of picking the wrong man (justified if you consider my romantic history). I’m worried about giving too much and expecting too little (also valid). I’m terrified of ending up alone. Devastated over the idea that I might not have children.

I’ve thought about the last one though – I’m having one. I’d rather not do it alone – plan to try like hell to meet someone wonderful – but I can if need be. But I could also be good at being married – sharing my life with someone.

I don’t think my way is the only way. My heart hurts much more over the woman who couldn’t hold her daughter’s hand because she was smoking and drinking a can of soda as they walked down the sidewalk than it ever would over a strong, capable woman deciding children aren’t in her plans. I understand feeling awkward around children – I sometimes do. But when I think of my life and try to imagine being alone – having a career and pets, wonderful friends and the opportunity to travel. Time to read and write and have incredible hobbies. Money to indulge myself. All those facets – pieces of what sound like a good life – leave me with an empty spot. I’ll always be looking around, wondering where the man is, when the children will come. That's just me.

So I’ve been thinking lately. About what will be right for me. About the intense stomach flip that I thought I needed so much, but perhaps is just throwing me off. Perhaps gentle strength and stability is (or should be) more appealing than dark and brooding talent. (Ah, brooding talent…) Sweet sincerity should win out over easy flirtation. Respect should matter more than heat. I’m getting it, I think. It gives me no small amount of comfort that I can see what I need and can get used to finding it attractive. I might be moving closer to what I want.

While having these thoughts, life goes on though. I put up my Christmas tree this morning. Locked Sprout in his room last night so I could sleep – the running and noise must stop at some point (and by “some point” I mean at, um, 9:00 when I’m too exhausted to stay awake until later). I took Chienne for a walk this morning. Started a project for Carrie. Made progress on another for Steve. Submitted some revisions on a paper after meeting with Boss. Had another meeting with a good collaborator. I’m productive – even after heading down the hall to find clothes while moaning “I don’t want to go!”

I’m continuing to collect lists of charities for holiday giving. I’m eager to attend church on Sunday. I have therapy tomorrow (well, I’m dreading that a bit, but that’s OK. I’ll let him know I was dreading it and see what he says). I’m not feeling nearly so sad as I was at one time – Christmas reminders help me out a lot. (I really like my tree.) I felt guilty – miserably so – for being so vulnerable and hopeful in my search for someone to love. That particular pain – whether through time or prayer or something else – has eased. I think it’s good for me to want this particular future. It’s OK that I’m sometimes sad that a part of my life I consider important is missing.

I’m good at my job. I can do this, if only I find the energy to do so. I’d be good at having a family. I’m a good daughter, an OK sister, a fantastic aunt. I have my faults – many, many quirks and habits and flaws that make me non-ideal. But I feel good about my goals. I, after all, can do whatever I want to do.

Grandma said so. Mom and Aunt would certainly back me up. And these are women more amazing than any I’ve been lucky enough to know. I badly want some young woman to be able to say the same of me some day. And lately, for some reason, I'm oddly hopeful that she will.