As has been mentioned on most of my blogs, my son Sam had his fifth birthday last week. Since math is still a skill I can occasionally employ in correct usage, him being five means that I am fifty-six ... yes, there is a fifty-one-year-plus gap between my entrance on the world stage and his.
In a different time or another place, such a wide span between parent and child would not be possible. It wasn't all that long ago that the statistical likelihood of being alive after 55 was pretty slim, and even today it's stretching the limits in many countries.
Lucky for me that I came into the world in a time and place that allows me the luxury of years, and even possession of all my own teeth. Although science and fortune won't have me rollerblading with Sam's children, it would be no miracle that would get me as far as his wedding ... as long as he marries fairly young.
Sound reasonable? Good, because now that the rather wordy intro is over, I'll get to the meat of the matter today ...
You hear that sound? A bit like a harp being tortured on the rack? Listen, and you will. It's nothing less than my heartstrings being tugged.
How many times have Mark and I let ourselves wander down the garden path that has us imagining ... if only? If only we were as young and rich as the Jolie Pitts, for heaven sake! We'd have a dozen kids easy! If only I was as young as he is ... he's 41, you might recall ... even with our present state of finances, we'd have at least two more!
As it is ... I'm fifty-six. Fifty-six is pretty darned old. We can't even begin to consider adding another child to our family now. Can we?
Photo Credit: ©2007 MABenoiton