Aging was never something that concerned me. I always thought I had plenty of time to achieve everything I wanted in life. Numbers? Who cares what number you are. For a whole year I thought I was older than I was.
Frida Kahlo (Mexican, 1907-1954).
1932. Also known as Flying Bed. Henry
In my twenties I always thought I would have a dozen children, live on a property and grow vegetables and have chooks. However, I became a single mother at 24, so my goals moved. They were to educate myself and to travel. Plus, I always want prioritise my relationship with Tamika.
I turned thirty, and was happy I had achieved all that I had. I adored Tamika, we were broke as, but she never wanted much. I thought the only thing I wish I could give her was a sibling. Her father gave her three, but that is another story.
I met Justin, and all clichés aside it was pretty much love at first sight. I fought it for ages because of the age difference. But as soon as I got over being fourteen years older, I allowed myself to be happy and in love. For me there was only one other thing needed. Okay, well more than one, I wanted babies with Justin.
Fast track this story, passing years of trying, surgeries, fertility issues, fertility treatments, miscarriages, and a whole lot of heart ache.
Charcoal, pencil and tea on paper
I fell pregnant, and into our world came Jarvis. I did not think it was possible to love another child as much as I love Tamika, oh but I do.
Photo taken by Justin
So you think I would be happy. One girl, one boy, two amazingly beautiful children. But why is it I cry my heart out each month when my period comes? My head tells me not to be greedy, to appreciate what I have, but my heart cries for another baby. I know time has run out. To fall pregnant when I was younger was hard enough, but now I am almost 45, I know it will not happen.
One of my ten things to do before my 45th birthday was to stop crying each month when my period comes. But as of yet I have not achieved it, if anything, each month closer to my birthday my heartache gets worse. Depression and tears slap me about.
Crayons on paper