My head is full.
I can not even remember what it was like to be oblivious to the woes of infertility. Every day, I am reminded that I am in my thirties and not yet a mother. My friends are parents, my nieces and nephews are parents, my parents are parents, my students are parents. I am not. I try to get pregnant. Nothing. I try to adopt. Nothing.
My heart aches for a child.
I've heard some fellow teachers say that their students are enough children for them to handle. They say that they don't need their own kids because their students are like their kids. I can definitely understand that. As a high school teacher in an urban district, a lot of my energy is sucked from me, er, devoted to the well-being of the 175 adolescents who walk through my classroom door each and every day. But honestly, that doesn't do it for me. Those people leave my life - most forever - after a few short months.
My soul yearns for more.
Yesterday I sat in my classroom after work and sobbed into my hands. Nothing really sparked the tears. No one asked me why I don't have kids. No one inquired about our seemingly stagnant adoption process. No pregnant student came to me for advice. Yet, this is what I do.
I just cry.
I cried yesterday because it was after 5:00 pm and I was still working in my classroom. I had been there for over ten hours - eleven once you factor in my commute - and the only person who honestly knew it was me. I really never have a reason to go home early. Granted, "early" in my teacher world means after the American standard eight hour day, but no one would know the difference if I left my job at 3:00 instead of my usual 4:30 or 5:00 or later. No one is waiting for me at home. When I finally do make the thirty minute journey to my slice of the world, I unlock the front door to an empty home. No babies crying, no kids latching onto my legs, no nothing (except for little Nacho begging for a treat, of course). Just a dark, quiet house that faintly smells of the old people who lived there before us.
I used to be oblivious to this. Going home was just that - going home. Now, it seems as though I just go to an empty house.