Infertile? Don't Work At An Art Gallery.

I haven't written much about my job here, mostly because of internet creeps, but also because I somewhat work for the government and I don't think they'd be pleased having their name associated with my lady bits.

For the purpose of this story, I work at an art gallery in small town Mississippi. I've been here about two and a half years and I love most parts of my job. Like any job there are ups and downs, but mostly I'm proud to have found a job that uses my art degree (take that nay-sayers who told me getting a fine art degree would lead me to living in a cardboard box!)

During the summer months, we, like many organizations around town, have summer camps for children. We have two camps, one for the older kids, and one for the younger ones. The older kids I was able to handle with ease, mostly because they're at the stage where they think they know everything and you're just a lame adult that they have to listen to.

However, the little kids, they kill me. While they're not the sweet squishy babies I yearn for, they still make me question what my future life will be like. Will I ever bring my child to a summer camp while also carrying their younger sibling, hair in a messy mom-do, barely making it on time? Will Keegan eventually be that dad rushing in from work, just seconds before the performance starts, slipping quietly into the back row? Will I ever be able to tell my child to "make something pretty!" when I drop them off and see their excited faces when they bound up the stairs at pick up time with their project from the day?

So many of the parents I see dropping off their child seem so rushed, so stressed, so ready to leave their child for the day while they go off to work. Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to say that parenting is easy. I'm sure if/when I have a child, I will one day be rushing to drop them off at school, trying to be at my desk before 9:00 hits. I just wish that I could slow them down, tell them how lucky they are and wish that they would stop for just a second and realize what a blessing their paint covered child is.

As I write this at my desk, there is a young girl behind me, lying on a bench from the gallery because her tummy hurts. She's sniffling because she's been crying for her mommy and all I want to do is wrap her up in my arms and tell her that it'll be ok. Her big brown eyes keep stealing glances at me, and I give her a small smile to try and make her feel better. She doesn't know, however, that I'm crying inside, wondering if I'll ever have a little girl like her.