Those of you who have read my blog know that at 36 and 364 days (birthday 37 is tomorrow!) I’ve come to understand the giving birth to a child might not be in my life’s plan.  That’s fine with me.  I have a great life of freedom and fun.  That was until the other night …

My boyfriend Frank has been over in Afghanistan since February, which means that the only sex I’ve been having is with myself.  Enjoyable, but not as good as a ménage a deux.  All of this in mind, you can imagine how I felt when I had a dream last week that I was pregnant with Frank’s baby.  It was one of those visceral dreams – so real that I could “feel” my belly growing.  I was freaked out.  I can’t remember how in the dream that I told Frank I was pregnant, but I do remember the person I was most afraid of telling was my friend Kathleen.  I was worried that the baby was going to change my life and ruin all my fun.

My friend Angie is a few years younger than me.  I actually hired her at my last job – where we worked together and became friends.  When I left that job we continued to hang out now and then.  Angie was married when I met her, had one daughter while we were working together, and has had two more girls in the time since.

About a month ago Angie emailed to see if I was interested in going to see Sting in concert.  (“Hell ya” was my answer, but that’s not the point of the story.)  She was just three months out from having baby number three and wanted to have some fun before going back to work.  So off we went to the concert.  On the way home we were continuing our “catch-up” on each others lives.  Angie was talking about the birth of her latest and final child, when she said to me, “My family is complete now.  I feel like I have nothing to look forward to.”

My parents have decided to divest themselves of my childhood home and build a new house.  After 38 years in the same place, they have accumulated a lot of stuff – and so have I.

For years my mother has threatened me with the following words, “You need to go through all those boxes of papers and either bring it to your place or I’ll throw it away.”  The boxes are mostly papers and photographs from my high school days.  I’m not even sure why I’ve kept them for 20 years; it’s not like those four years were the happiest of my life, so why would I want to save those memories?

Plus there’s no place to put all those boxes in my 600 sqft condo.

Also in their basement are the souvenirs of my childhood – Barbie dolls, My Little Ponies, Fisher Price houses, dress-up clothes.  All of these things were lovingly packed away decades ago in anticipation of my own children.  As I approach the age of 37, I’ve come to grips with the fact that those children probably won’t be coming along.  So what to do with all those toys?  My niece would enjoy some of them – she loves playing with the Fisher Price houses when she’s at Grammy’s house – but my brother and his wife only have so much room in their house.

I suppose it’s a right-of-passage when your parents leave your childhood home, but I’m not sure how I’m going to handle the last night I’ll spend there.