I wish

I wish I only wanted one child.

I wish I could be one of the thousands (millions?) of people who choose to have an only child and are perfectly happy and content with their decision.

Some days, days like today, I would give anything for the ability to be one of those people who can argue with conviction that having an only child is not just okay, it's preferable.

Only children:

Are greener.
Are less of an financial and emotional stress for parents.
May be more likely to flourish under their parents undivided attention.
Are easier to travel with and provide extraordinary experiences for.
Need not be spoiled if parented judiciously.
Need not be lonely in the embrace of a large, loving extended family.

Great points aren't they?

It would certainly be pretty hard to argue against them with someone who was equipped to debate with confidence and passion and heartfelt conviction.

God, I wish I were that person.

Melancholy summer

When I was a child summer lasted forever.

Summer was a kingdom onto itself where I was the queen and each endless day was tailor- made for my pleasure.

My childhood was spent splashing at the lake, practicing somersaults in the water and building sand castles to house my dreams. My teenage years were a blur of short shorts and suntans and sticky-sweet air heavy with possibility.

Summer is a melancholy time for me now. The older I get, the more I feel its essence slipping from my grasp. I no longer expect to enjoy endless sunshine, lazy days and sultry nights: I find myself yearning for just a day or two - a few hours even - in which I feel that the rays on my face are reflecting the joy in my heart.

Age, it seems, has stolen my ability to live in the moment. I am compelled to peer anxiously forward, planning next week, next month, next year: fearing winter's chill even as the sun shines warm and bright.

I wonder if Graham thinks that summer will last forever.


I wonder if he will view these days, these sweet moments, so rushed and random to me, through a lens designed to colour and stretch them. I wonder if they will forever be rendered longer and brighter and sweeter in his memory.


I wonder when he will start to feel, as I do, that the seasons seem to blend one into the other. I wonder how old he will be when he realizes that autumn, with its rain and ruin, is waiting in the wings.

I hope it will be a good, long while.