I always wanted four. Children, that is. I specifically remember sitting on the staircase with my best friend taking turns sharing our grand plans. We–with our eleven-year-old foresight–hashed out the fine details of the houses we’d own and the kids we’d have, right down to the gender order of their births. We were so sure of how things would be. All there was to do was wait.
I’m sure the folly isn’t lost on you.
About the only thing that proved to be true were the four children I predicted, though they didn’t bother to adhere to the genders I specified.
Maybe it’s because I was a teen mom or maybe it’s because I’m any kind of mom at all but there was a time when all I had to do was close my eyes and I could see their futures unfolding bit by bit. Having osmosis-ly absorbed the lessons I’ve learned they would dodge the pitfalls that swallowed me whole–no reason to stray from the well-lit path. They’d grow and they’d go and so seamlessly their lives would splice into the ones I always played out in my head.
Still with the folly, apparently.
I’ve not known long stretches of any golden road. No straightaway to emerald city. Rather, there are twists and bumps and cliffs so jagged. So sheer. Toes hanging over the edge, I step over–a parachute of faith strapped tight.
In my hometown there was a tree-canopied, long and winding road to the coast. Depending on the time of day, the sun might stream down in golden rays through the leaves and if you turned your face upward–eyes closed–you might see a kaleidoscope play out for miles.
It was as close to a golden road as I’ve ever come.