A major article of contention between my ex-husband and me was kids.  He was hell bent on being a father before thirty, and he felt his biological clock thrumming in every beat of of his heart.  No argument I made to back my answer of "no" was good enough.  In the end, I know my desire NOT to have kids was part of the reason he ended up with our fecund, curvy best friend.

And I was cool with it.  I mean, some of me was.  I believe one of my final "just divorce me already" comments was along these lines: She wants kids.  You want kids.  I am not going to be in a three partner relationship.  Go fulfill your biological imperative and leave me out of it!

So I went and got myself sterilized as soon as life was just me.  I can be a nurturer and caregiver without producing my own progeny.  When I am well and stable and functioning and have life figured out I can adopt, foster or mentor.  I am very at peace with this decision.

But every now and then, I get these incredible and intense longings. Last night I was finishing up a Sue Townsend novel, pondering what my next read would be.  I thought about how lovely it would be to have a partner in bed next to me to read out loud to.  And then it went a total different direction.

I wished so much that there was a little one in my life I could scoop up and read to.  I ached for the feeling of a little body nestled in my lap, to see that child lost in a story I was reading with terrible voices and a great deal of drama.  I thought of the children's books in my library and got a little melancholy.