In my dreams I have long uninterrupted nights of restful sleep shifting gradually through sweet languor to wakefulness well after sunrise.
In my reality, I awake, exhausted, when it's barely light to the touch of tiny hands and the excited chirping of "I wake up, I wake up!" as if the day is a new present brought by Santa that cannot possibly be left sitting until later in the morning.
And so it is. I think I prefer my reality after all. Especially since
S_____ is generous of her time and what little she material goods she has. She does nice things for people. She cooks and bakes and takes the food to her children. She buys lots of little gifts for her grandchildren. She is always willing to babysit her grandchildren so her children and their spouses can have a date night or get together with friends. She is a very hard worker; after her divorce she worked long hours in low paying jobs to provide for five children. She sacrificed having things
I think that the argument that marriage is the union of husband and wife importantly related to the idea that children need moms and dads is a reasonably arguable one. I disagree with this position, both in its apparent elevation of the sexual identity of the two-parent pair over the value of good parenting, and in its obvious designation of child-bearing to the status of the prime, and only legitimate, raison d'etre of marriage. I would be happy to debate these issues with anyone on the merits.
The song 100 years by Five for Fighting came out in 2004.
I was 40 years old, divorced, childless.
I loved the song, but it made me sad. I felt the years of my life going too fast, my chance to be a father gone, too many years wasted on a bad marriage with a broken woman. I was in love in 2004, but dating a guy. Even if we built a life together, children don't just happen for same-sex couples. It's difficult. Soon I would be too old to adopt. I was already mourning
Our baby daughter cries; it is 5:30 a.m. My turn, so I rise early and go to her, hobbling so I don't put weight on my broken toe. She is half-asleep, but her diaper is puffy with a nightful of urine. I deftly lift her and carry her to the changing table, change her and return her to the crib. She is still fussy, probably hungry, so I limp out to the refrigerater. The bottle of formula I prepared last night is still there. I return to her room and she swallows a few ounces before falling asleep again.
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