Day 443: Fake

I am the REAL Iron Man. And can I have this Lego, please?

Aah, the innocence and playfulness of a child. The mother across from me is roleplaying with her finger-face, who's talking to her little boy. He interacts with her hand, not with her face, when the hand moves while his mother talks. 

Maman?

They also had a big chat about whether the Iron Man sitting across from him, encouraging him to eat his sandwich, was the REAL Iron Man or just his mother in a mask. He knew it was his mother, but I swear there was a tiny bit of him that still had a little bit of doubt until he pulled off the mask and revealed her. Démasqué! Very sweet.

I'm all yearny for that experience today. As I grow older and the likelihood of me having children of my own diminishes, I often feel a deep ache to look at a tiny creature I've had a hand in creating; to play games and read stories and do goodnight, sleep tight routines. Yeah, this is the romantic side. 

Ow

If I don't, in the end, I've had a cunning idea. If I'm melancholy and wishing I had children, I shall set my alarm for every two hours (and maybe I'll get an app that does some random setting, so I can't GUARANTEE it's every two hours)... The alarm will sound with jagged, screamy noises that won't stop for hours sometimes, even when you bounce up and down, sing lullabies or run litres of water down the sink to make the sound of a running tap. 

One way to make it stop, at least for a while, is to take a bulldog clip and attach it to one nipple, working it open and shut, for at least half an hour, then swap it to the other. Sometimes, though, even that doesn't work. 

Just in case, I'll make sure there are some questionable smells around and occasionally I'll swallow some rancid, yoghurty milk and cough it up over myself, only to wipe it off again with a spoon and put it back into my own mouth (oh, alright, maybe that comes after they've stopped breastfeeding, but that's the beauty of having a pretend child - you can mix it up a bit). 

Your supper, right here, round my mouth

Then I'll breathe and be grateful, as I pack away the paraphernalia of the fake child. I'll remember that I get to do this for one night, to remind myself, whereas real parents get to do for weeks on end, months, maybe years. Then I'll know that there are things to be grateful about not having children. 

I'll adopt puppies and broken birds. I'll volunteer in orphanages. I'll write books about making the most of your life, whatever it brings you. I'll realise that there are many, many, many things worse than not having children, and many, many things that bring joy and love that have nothing to do with this. 

It's not over yet//it's not about the bunny

I'll remember that this was always a choice... I was never forced into not having children. I haven't discovered that I can't... I have chosen not to do this without a good, strong, loving relationship, people and environments that can sustain, nurture and nourish a child. I realise already how privileged I am to be able to make this choice for myself and for this, I'm grateful. 

As I type, I'm being guerned at (and waved at) by a small, toothy girl-baby in a pram. Aaaah... maybe it's time to start with the nipple clamps already. We'll see. And you never know. It's not over yet. For this too, I'm grateful. 

Scary, beautiful, powerful, exciting, humbling.