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I can hear children playing in the yard next door. There’s Bobby, who’s nine; Timmy’s five; and Sammy is seven. None of these children are mine, but I watch them just the same from my window. They are playing baseball, and--as first borns often do--Bobby is directing the others where to play, how to pitch, who is out. An argument starts between him and Sammy and quickly the yelling ensues. A deep voice calls out to them to “keep it down” and the boys agree in unison. I wince at the faceless words that floated over the boys and to my ears. It was the voice of a dad too busy to play with his children. Consciously choosing to miss out on a day of their too short youth. I pompously assert to myself that, if they were my children, I would not be so quick to run them off or neglect them. But...would I? How can I say how I would react? I have no children to test my theory on.
It’s not like we haven’t tried. God knows we’ve tried. Every position, every technique, doctors, treatments--all in vain. Our love life has become our job and our promotion only comes when we see the plus sign. So, once a month, we wait and hope and wish...only to be disappointed. On what we’ve spent on pregnancy tests alone--we could have bought one of the neighbor kids by now. In fact, my wife is up there now, pacing the bathroom floor, praying for a miracle.
Infertility was never part of the equation. Just the word itself makes me cringe. We were dubbed the perfect couple, sired by perfect parents, who were to go out and get perfect jobs and a perfect home with perfect children running through its halls. We’ve just come up one short. It amazes me to think how much I could miss something I’ve never had. How the desire for a person you don’t know and haven’t met yet can consume you to such a point that everything else that you do or have is meaningless. And, that says a lot coming from me--upper management, company car, six-figure salary, the works. All of that means nothing if I don’t have a child to take fishing with me on Saturday. It’s becoming an obsession that I can’t control, can’t fight, can’t overcome.
The boys next door are back at it. Apparently one of the ghost runners tried to steal third and opinions differ as to whether he’s out or not. They argue and Sammy jumps on top of the other two and they topple to the ground in a sprawl of bodies. Again the voice cries out and again the boys quickly settle their differences and return to the game. My wife quietly comes down the stairs and, as I turn to look at her, I hear the sound of glass breaking and shattered dreams, and I know. I sigh as I move towards patching the holes in my window and in my heart.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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