One potential hazard of spending a lot of time by myself is lingering thought. Since we moved from San Francisco to Perth, the time I spend alone has skyrocketed. Overall, this has been a surprisingly welcome turn of events. I am at risk of turning into a happy hermit, making up new stew recipes and dreaming of becoming a lighthouse keeper.
When I’m folding clothes, or sitting on the couch writing, or buying deodorant for every member of this household because everyone needs to please start wearing deodorant at all times, a question or idea will inevitably pop into my head. And then it will not leave because I am very un-busy and there is no one else around. This question or idea – sometimes trivial, occasionally disturbing – will sit front and center raising its hand, “Call on me! Call on me!” What was the name of that girl in middle school who threw my Velcro wallet in the toilet? Why do so many fundraising videos feature someone showing words on flashcards? I wonder what my dad’s body looks like right now, underground.
Recently, walking home after school drop-off, a thought sashayed into my head like Olivia Pope entering the oval office. I want a baby. We should have another baby.
I went for a run. We should have a baby. I showered. I really want a baby.
I texted Dave, “I want to have another baby.” He texted back, “Do you want to meet for lunch?”
I couldn’t meet for lunch because I was going back to school to tutor children in reading. I was excited about introducing a seven-year-old boy to Maurice Sendak.
I’ll eat you up – I love you so. I want a baby. Throughout the day, the thought grew and grew, until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around.
What is this about, I wondered. I am done having babies. My daughters are eight and ten, wonderful ages for chatting, traveling, and generally doing things without the panic brought on by the gorgeous but nagging presence of an infant. There is no more, “We’d love to go, but the little darling is still napping.” I am 42, an age where it might still be possible to get pregnant; making the deliberate decision not to feels a bit like turning down the chance to do a somersault on a trampoline. I could potentially make this happen.
As it turns out, one way to kill the idea of having another baby is to get in a stupid, unrelated fight with the father of this what-if baby and leave the house, thus celebrating my capacity for spontaneous exits. My body is no longer the main food source for any human being, nor is anyone relying on my presence in order to fall asleep.
I drove straight to the Windsor Cinema on Stirling, bought a glass of SSB (Semillon Sauvignon Blanc, the Corona of Western Australia), and scored an aisle seat to the movie Burnt. I ripped open the Snickers bar I had stolen from my daughter’s Halloween stash just before my great escape. A man sitting behind me was enthusiastically telling his friend about his dog Marcello who was recently prescribed some pills “so he can get down to his maintenance weight.”
You will never see the movie Burnt (I forbid it) so allow me to summarize. Bradley Cooper portrays a chef who is – wait for it – a narcissistic jerk. He throws food against the wall, yells at the cute guy from The Americans, and grabs Sienna Miller by the shirt-collar and screams in her face. Later in the film she kisses him, because nothing’s sexier than an abusive boss.
I left the movie theater and walked back to my car. The air was warm and, thanks to the Indian restaurant nearby, smelled pleasantly like curry. I didn’t need to go home right away, but I wanted to. My family is there. They’re all sleeping soundly. And will continue to do so, all night long.
