Dragging My Heels

I dragged my heels around Silverlake Reservoir a little while ago before Michael left for work. The sun was hot but the air was cold, and the San Gabriel Mountains were dusted with snow. The music plugged into my ears and the sunglasses over my eyes just made me feel even more apart from all the other people circling the water. There was a cramping sort of ache in the left side of my chest. I mean literally. Not like I'm making purple prose about sadness. I wondered if I have something wrong with my heart because I've been jittery about mortality lately.

Back home, my son continues to lay around, too sick to get up. My husband has now left for work, and the apartment is flooded with light, but we can't leave to enjoy the cold breeze rustling the leaves of the Eucalyptus. Or we can enjoy the view through the windows. I'll spend the day and night inside chasing my son's fever so he doesn't seize again. Go figure about the jittery part. Meanwhile, we watch Pixar movies from the couch because they make us feel good.

And lately I've been bombarded with bad news about other people's children. I read blogs about sick or hurt children, wanting desperately to believe in impossible miracles for strangers only to learn that the children die. I read articles about Hurricane Sandy on Staten Island, and they remind me about the boys swept from their mother's arms. It seems like I can't escape the reminders of our mortality and how it sometimes, stupidly, just comes down to luck. And today, despite my son's sickness, I think I might be lucky.

But, I don't know. After seven months of trying to conceive a second child, my husband has decided that we're too old and it's too scary and why would we want to push our luck, why would we want to rock the boat. However, I'm not convinced by his argument, logical as it is. It's true, though. At 42 and 46, we're really too old. My body doesn't seem to be cooperating to let this happen as naturally and quickly as it did with my son. But I've become just a hopeless, emotional mess of biological yearning.

So on the one hand I feel lucky to have one beautiful son. I know this. Really, really lucky and grateful.  On the other hand, it looks like I'll only get to have the one. All my eggs in one basket. And it doesn't seem fair that we've really tried to do things in a responsible way, and as a result of that, our age, and all the wisdom that comes with it, is now preventing us from making any more children. I should say that we looked (are looking?) into adoption, but the process, at first glance, seems insurmountable and filled with risk.

Anyway...I'm going to go back to watching Toy Story now. The bright colors are very cheerful...