I know I'm old. (For pregnancy, that is...and before anyone is sweet and tries to tell me that I'm not old, I appreciate it, but the Advanced Maternal Age moniker that has been so conveniently attached to my name for several years now disagrees.)
I know kids grow up.
I know this is the world in which we live.
And I know they had a choice and I'm grateful they chose life.
There's just something sort of depressing in being pregnant...at the same time as children you taught when they were 7 and 8 years old are ALSO pregnant. And are still children, essentially.
Not depressing for me being pregnant...I guess I wished more for them...not that there is any blessing greater than a child in one's life.
I just wished they'd not gotten there quite so soon.
And yes, it's sort of frustrating that I got here so, so, so, so many years later. Those young women were the same sweet little girls telling me, "Mrs. Ennis, I wish you were my mom! You'll be great when you have a baby."
And who would have dreamed they'd grow up and get pregnant and I'd STILL be missing the pitter patter of little feet?
Not me, that's who.