I’ve never been one to live in the moment. I remember sitting on my bed in high school with a pen and a notebook, planning my life — when I’d graduate college, where I’d work, when I’d meet my husband, when we’d get married, when I’d have my first (a boy), my second (a girl), and where I’d interject my professional achievements.
That profession changed, of course, dozens of times. I even had one of those Which Career Best Fits Your Personality books, where I answered hundreds of questions to get to a strict “personality profile” — dictating who I was before I was capable of knowing that myself. But the thought of just floating through life was unfathomable.
I was flexible in my planning. It was more like daydreaming, except that my daydreams had clear boundaries and focused goals. And when I’d change my major, again, or at least contemplate taking a different path, out came the notebook and pen, and out came another 10-year plan.
Always a plan.
I know better now.
I know that if I had a magic wand 10 years ago, one that allowed my life to follow one of my pen-scrawled 10-year plans, I wouldn’t want that life anymore — not in comparison to this one. I wouldn’t have him. I wouldn’t have this.
“I want a baby.”
He tells me he wants a boy AND a girl. He wants them in my tummy, and then he wants to play with them and teach them how to walk.
Here I am, already counting the years and months that would separate them, wondering if I should have already given him a sibling, even more fiercely debating whether I even want a second baby — back and forth and back. And here’s this little innocent face asking so nicely for a playmate.
On the surface, I feel like the universe threw a pretty profound lesson my way — one that can be summed up as thus: chill the hell out. When all of the good things in my life are attributed to taking risks and letting go of preconceived “plans,” why am I having so much trouble trusting that life will work itself out? That a second baby will (or won’t) come at the perfect time? And that the perfect time might not be foreseeable?
Because buried down under experience and life-lessons is a young girl crouching in the corner of my mind with a pen and paper, tapping her foot, ready to write a plan.
She’s getting impatient.
And all the while, Noah is waiting for someone.
Someone to share his knowledge and magic.
Justin goes back and forth just as much as I do, and we’ve pretty much stopped talking about it at this point. We’ve landed on a comfortable “Not Now.” But the question is always in my mind, and now it’s coming out of Noah’s mouth.
Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’m scared to take control, to plan, when the unplanning has been so wonderful.
Maybe I’ll never be ready.
But then who is he waiting for?