I feel old tonight.
My bones hurt. My nose is running. My energy got up and left, leaving me with nothing but the desire to go to bed. And in my head echoes the phrase, “This is pretty surprising, given your age, but your knee is severely arthritic.”
That was the doctor this afternoon, sharing the results of my recent MRI. Apparently, I also have a torn meniscus and a bruised bone, which will heal. But this arthritis? It’s only going to get worse.
My knee is ready to retire. Unfortunately, the rest of me is still trying to keep up with a three-year-old.
And that, my friends, is probably why you’re supposed to have kids in your twenties.
I didn’t of course. I didn’t even think about getting pregnant until 30 had come and gone. Sure, I was only 33 when she was born. But now I’m 37. Staring down the nose at 40. Feeling (as I said before) old.
And still, I can’t admit to myself that Tori’s going to be an only child.
I’d still gladly do it again. All of it. The nine months of indigestion. The seemingly unstoppable weight gain (that has yet to disappear from whence it came). The mood swings. The saggy maternity jeans. I’d welcome it all with open arms.
I’d even deal with that postpartum depression crap again, if I had to. Sure, it sucked. Sucked hard, sucked long, just sucked, sucked, sucked. But even when everything seemed hopeless, there were still moments of joy. Bubbles of time to treasure. And a tiny little person who was mine to keep safe.
I miss that. More than I would have thought possible.
But I can’t even move.
And the child I already have has enough problems already.
I can’t bring another child into the world right now.
And soon it will be too late.
Stupid biological clock.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sometimes, even when you know it’s stupid, you’ve gotta Just Write.