Suppose you tell me darlin’ — who do you think I think I am?

I laughed at both of my older brothers as I watched them go from most of their lives griping about how they’d never have kids, they’d never want kids, they didn’t understand how anybody could want kids… to settling down and raising families of their own. My oldest brother has… 9 or 10, I think? One adopted, the rest carried by his wife.  I remember the same thing with my next-younger sister, there was no way she’d have kids… and now she has two, and is happy.

And now I’m standing in the mirror wondering what’s happened to the woman I knew, the one who used to casually joke about how “I love kids! Just gotta tenderize ’em first, back the van over them a few times works well, then marinate overnight and grill for dinner!”  Wondering what happened to the rage that accompanied being in the same room as any child under about 12, and the frustration that came with every sound they made.  Wondering what happened to the woman who would cross the street when someone came walking along pushing a stroller, or leading a toddler or two along. Because that’s the woman I keep expecting to see…

…but instead I’m looking at the reflection with a puzzled look, because the woman I see looking back at me can see herself settling down, can see herself not only as a housewife (and that’s something I’ve hoped to be for many years) but as a mother helping to raise her children.  Not just “can see herself” doing these things, but genuinely wants to do these things.  It’s a very, very weird feeling, and although I know that I’m the woman looking back, I’m kind of wondering “who are you, and what have you done with me?!”

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