It's so, so hard to be consistently happy. So I have this whole bee in my bonnet about how I want to have a house and babies and try to recreate a childhood for them like the wonderful one that I had. Afternoons in the park, me and my husband swinging the kids between our hands, trading smiles over their heads, etc. It seems impossible to get there, from here. And I feel occasionally unhappy, verging on panicked, because of this.
But if I had a mortgage running me into the ground like some of my friends, and if I was a parent, which is like accepting a full-time, 24-7 babysitting job that you have to pay someone else to take over for you if you ever need an evening off - whew, would that really make me happy? I can't help but wonder if I wouldn't look back wistfully on the afternoons when I could come home from work, flop down on the bed, eat potato chips, and read Steppenwolf, totally unencumbered.
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