I’m a wanna-be mommy. I know; it’s 2020, and motherhood is not a career choice that all women are going for. However, I’m old-fashioned: the kind of girl who gets excited about making sourdough cinnamon rolls.
There probably aren’t a multitude of idyllic little cottages around, with a stone wall around the half acre of property, and a gate in the wall that creaks when you open it. Gates must creak, after all, or they aren’t proper gates. These kinds of dwellings are pretty rare these days, especially when you add the significant sized garden in the backyard, complete with a baby orchard. It’d be something out of a storybook. If there happens to be one such place remaining in this too-modernized, too-crazy world, I want it. I’d be okay with a more realistic type of home as well, say, a hobbit house. Okay, okay, I know. That’s not realistic, either. But where’s the fun in sticking to logic? Seriously, though, I’d settle for something a little less dreamy. After all, any apartment or farmhouse or shack can be turned into a home.
I love babies. But, the downside to me loving babies is that they belong to somebody else. It’s an intrusion of sorts to love other people’s babies. Just as it’s an intrusion of sorts to live in somebody else’s house, no matter how welcoming they happen to be. But this is reality, not only for me, but for other young women out there who long to have families of their own. Baby fever is a thing. Just google it. So, just a note to those out there who don’t happen to be living in a single season… spending time with your babies is not a cure-all for those of us who don’t have any. Of course, it might help. Or it might make matters worse. Or both.
It’s a mommy world she craves
As singlehood she braves
Some babies all her own
A garden neatly sown
Little house with loads of charm
The laundry basket on her arm
Sleeping eyelashes, curled just right
Summer day to fly a kite
Serving guests with teapot truth
Rejoicing over first lost tooth
A window seat for dreaming dreams
Herbs that hang from kitchen beams
Reading books before the nap
Snuggled close upon her lap
Stirring soup and baking bread
Kisses on that little head
Picnic lunches by a creek
See the things her heart does seek
Where is this world, this mommy place?
For her it’s still an empty space
And she must wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Twenty-something 