It’s the Tuesday afternoon of half term and I’m lying down on my bed, catching up on my emails, listening to the children playing in the room next door. Yes, you heard that correctly, plural, ‘children’. Except that two out of the three are not mine. I still only have one, for which I am very happy about most of the time. But when I was first married and even for a short while after my divorce, I felt that I wanted another. I’m going to be 43 this year and have begun the process of trying to let go of the idea of having another child, mainly because I am not in a relationship where that can happen. But I do feel like I have missed out on having the family that I always wanted. My sister has two boys, my best friend has two boys, another dear friend has two girls, my neighbours have one of each and I’m one of three. Having my neighbour’s children over for a play on a somewhat regular basis, gives me that insight into what it might have been like if I’d had more. It is something that pulls at my heartstrings when I least expect it and frequently makes me yearn for the unavailable, a life not within my grasp.
It is at these moments that I sternly remind myself to be grateful for what I do have, that my glass is definitely half full.
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