After dropping off Constance at the Damen El stop this morning, I continued onto Wilson Avenue, rocking out to the latest Kings of Leon album while attempting to bypass the bevy of new-condo construction that stands between me and my loft office. If I could sprout wings and do a flyover of my condo-fied neighborhood, I imagine it would look like one enormous red brick separated by a series of traffic jams and liberally dotted with Starbucks stores, Chase Banks and Catholic churches.
Upon turning the corner, I spotted a little boy, about five, who was slightly chubby with a mop of immaculate blond hair. Had I been a believer in out-of-body experiences or time travel, I would have thought it was me from another era (an era where I had hair, obviously). More than likely my vision was induced by a weekend seduction at the hands of The Time Traveler’s Wife - delving into 500+ pages of infertility-related fiction over the course of three days was both heartbreaking and gratifying.
It could also be that ovulation (if I so much as breathe Constance’s hormones I turn into Reproducto the Wonder Boy) has reignited my biological clock, and this desperation to see myself in the child form is a function of its annoying tick. Regardless, I took my eyes off the road and watched that boy traipsing down the block, smiling and skipping beside his father as the driving rock music accentuated their loving gait, and I blew right through a four-way stop.
Chemically, I’m not myself today. Physically, though, I’m still in one piece and so is our PT Cruiser. Constance will be furious with me upon reading this, worrying that I put our future in danger during an instance of wishful-parent insanity. The could-have-been accident scared me, but that little boy made my day. He was perfect, and so was the moment.
And finally, Jenn over at The Mama Wannabe tagged me for an “I Am” poem some time ago, and I let it slip my mind because on occasion I can be unbelievably flighty. I will be unveiling my attempt tomorrow - sorry for the wait.