I am spending a lot of the time at the moment trying to calmly, composedly, stare the whole ‘No Kids Not Now Not Ever’ thing in the face.
I have spent some choice moments during the past few years alternately squinting into its actinic glare, running past it with my eyes shut, throwing open the closet door and shrieking ‘AAAAIEEEE’ in its face before slamming the door shut again, and occasionally having a real good histrionic wallow in concentrated essence of melodrama and declaring myself a future lonely abandoned mad cat lady found dead in a bin being eaten by foxes and whose name no one knows or cares about.
Calm composure, May my dear, calm composure.
Life without kids will not suck, will not destroy me, will not lead to my abandonment and feral death, will not burn out my retinas. Life without children will, in fact, be dandy. I will grieve, I will feel burning flailing resentment for the costs to my health and sanity trying to have children exacted, I will heal, I will pull by bloody socks up, and I will move on. This may take years, it may take months. But there it is, and there am I, and that will be that.
Meanwhile, what with the Summer of Needles looming before me, Shakespeare says it all rather well
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.