Spent yesterday evening with three women friends:
S~ is thirty-three and eight months pregnant with her third child (I conceived the pregnancy that became my third miscarriage at the same time).
M~is fifty and letting go of a longtime expectation that one day she'd adopt a Chinese daughter, moving on to finding excitement in her life's work.
D~, after a decade of infertility, two failed IUIs, and Clomid treatments for both herself and her low sperm motility husband, went on to have three healthy boys without any medical intervention at all.
Just goes to show me, every uterus has a story.
And this morning I spoke to a woman I am just getting to know who has two children, age 13 and 15. She mentioned that she is 52-years-old. Which means she had her first child at thirty-nine. I don't know her story (yet), but I am reminded that I'm not quite thirty-eight, that a full year from now I will still be not quite thirty-nine. Which reminds me that you never know what the future may hold. My own story may not be over yet.
I don't let myself think that very often.
Mostly, I think about work (there's been a lot of work lately), the possibility of graduate school (still waiting for the verdict on that), the fiction stories I want to write (there are several), and what I'm going to have for lunch (leftovers, of course).