"So, do you think you want kids?”
That's how he delivers the question. As casually as placing a dinner salad on the table and asking which dressing I preferred.
I know exactly where this question is coming from. We're driving home from a barbeque in which I fought off a six year old for four straight hours. We raced, we played tag, we played go-fish, we explored her playroom. She was always there. Hanging on me, begging me to play the next game, latching on to me like a third arm. Her parents were begging her to behave and leave me alone. She couldn't get enough.
The thing is, I'd be lying if I said I could.
"Yes…” is my simple answer to his incredibly complicated question. I pause, and hold my breath. "You?”
My boyfriend, Adam, didn't find her never-ending attention as endearing as I did. When we arrived, her parents were still freshening up, and she let us in, sat with us in the living room, and we asked her questions about school, boyfriends (because that always gets a smile) and what she did that day. We probably asked questions for a good half hour before her family properly started the barbeque. By then, she was my new pet. Very lovable, very loyal, very needy. Perhaps even too needy in the eyes of Adam.
"I don't know," he answered.
And I let my breath go.
The thing is, I love kids. Love them. Always have. I think it's amazing how the world is so new to them, incredible that they communicate with their eyes and their smiles and their touch, fantastic that they learn more in an hour than I do in a week. I love their smiles and their tears, I love their little shoes and tiny toes, and I love the idea that I could dress them up in little adult-like clothing and treat them as if they're not kids, but proper little people (who admittedly may need a little scolding every once in a while). In fact, I never imagined myself without them.
The truth is, though, that the question about having kids isn't that simple anymore. Adam and I are serious. We talk about retirement and saving for that retirement, we're both saving up miles so I can fulfill my dream of traveling around the world. He's met all my friends, all my family, and has shockingly gained the approval of every person he's met. I talk to his mother on the phone on a weekly basis and miss him the few days I don't get to be near him. And so the question of having kids isn't as simple as “Do I want kids?” It's completely changed. The question is “Do I want kids if that meant I couldn't have Adam?” when Adam has already entered the equation as someone that I completely love.
I posed that question to him. If it were between not having kids and having me, does he know what he'd choose? He said it wasn't a fair question. I responded it was very well the question one of us would have to answer.
I understand his hesitation. I understand that the world isn't the nicest place, that there are things to be fearful of. That in some minds, there's no real reason to bring a child into the world because it could be considered cruel to them. That in a lot of cases, including mine, having a child is a selfish thing to do. I understand it's a ton of work, a huge commitment, and it's one I'll never understand until that moment that I begin raising a child. And all those things said, I still want them.
I want them for my parents. I want them for me. I want them for him. I want them because it takes this daily grind that we go through each and every day and adds purpose. And even if though I have no other reason for wanting them other than I just do, I still really want them.
So how do you balance already being love with someone with the idea of being in love with your imaginary kids? How does that work?
One of my very best friends and single mother of one, who absolutely completely adores Adam in every way, responded like this...
"Oh, that's a toughy. Liv, I don't know. I mean, I love Sam. But if that meant I couldn't have Elizabeth? I don't know. I really don't."
With our two year anniversary quickly approaching, I ask him the question a lot. When we get up and when we go to bed. When we're traveling and when we're in the comfort of our home. When we're next to each other and when we're on the phone. I've explained that not all kids are like her, and when they're your kids, it's different. They're yours. And yes, they're work, but they're yours and that makes it more fun. Aggravating, but still fun.
I do believe there is hope. And lately, I'm starting to think there's more hope than I thought.
Just yesterday, we walked by the Easter Bunny photo booth where a one year old was tucked in the fuzz of the Easter bunny with an expression of nothing but shock. Adam laughed, and pointed out the baby to me.
And then we strolled by Lowe's and a selection of lamps on display. Adam pointed at the Winnie the Pooh version and expressed how cute it was. I laughed at him and explained that he couldn't admire Winnie the Pooh lamps unless he was willing to entertain having kids.
And then last night, when I asked how long he thought we'd live in our townhouse, he was surprised to hear I thought we'd be there for five years or more.
"I'm not sure I would want to raise a kid in a townhouse," he said.
To which my heart jumped. Because I can breathe once again. Because I am me, and I want it all – Adam and his kids.
