Yesterday, I was walking into the mall and saw a mother bending down tying her daugher's shoe. The kid had a cheek so full of gum she could hardly hold her head up straight. I laughed and craved a kid of my own.
In the mall, I saw a kid jumping up and down and screaming at the bottom of the escalator because he was either really scared or really excited; I couldn't tell. I laughed anyway and thought again how much I wish I were a mom.
I saw a kid face-down on the floor (which is kind of gross) at Starbucks and throwing a tantrum. I turned to my mom and said, "I don't even care if they do that, I want a baby so bad!"
Every time I see a pregnant women I want to walk up to her and tell her how lucky she is but instead I just enviously watch her from afar.
I'm contemplating attending my family ward while I'm home instead of my singles branch so I can sit by all the young mothers and hold their babies.
At Thanksgiving my mom asked me to make name cards for everybody and put them where they would be sitting so there would be no confusion. I made them and put the children's cards at the plates surrounding mine. The kids were loud and I had to cut their food for them; they spilled their juice on me but I didn't mind. I loved having them there.
I think that is why I baby my plant so much. I have an avacado tree. I named it Verde. I grew it from an avacado pit, watched it sprout roots in a glass, and coaxed every green leaf out of it with motherly tlc. Yesterday, I decided that it was time for him to transfer to a new pot. He had outgrown the old one and so, like any good mother, I got a bigger pot from the garage and started the transplantation process. When Verde was safely in a new pot, watered, and his new dirt was neatly and lovingly packed around him; I filled the laundry room sink with soapy water and sponged away all the dirt residue that was left on the inside of Verde's first pot. Ceramic met marble as I placed the clean old pot on the counter. I looked at it. Empty. Even now as I write this I can feel that feeling that crept up inside of me but I can't adequately explain it. It had been so long since I had seen that pot empty. I remember the day I picked that pot out at Home Depot and the salesman who wouldn't stop hitting on me. I remember the day I lifted Verde from his water glass and planted him in that pot. I remember wrapping that pot in a towel because I thought it might be too cold for Verde. Now it's empty. I wasn't sure what to do with it, I couldnt't just put it in the garage to collect dirt. I decided to start growing a new plant to put in it.
Is that what being a mother will be like? Someday will I find myself in my laundry room, folding my baby's first onesie, that he has outgrown, and think, "I remember the first day I put him in this and now it's empty." I'm sure I'll feel that same feeling that I felt with the old pot only stronger. Will I ask myself, "What should I do with this? I can't just put it in a box to collect dust. Maybe I'll just have another baby to fill it."