"Typical"

Yesterday someone called me typical. At the time I agreed with them (or rather, I didn't argue, probably because saying something along the lines of "what do you mean, typical, I'm not typical" would make me sound like an idiot) but now I'm rebelling. Even if I don't think the person who called me typical reads this, I'm going to argue my case.

I was called typical because I said I want to have four children and live to eighty to see my grandchildren grow up. It is a fairly traditional thing to want, I guess, I'm definitely not the girl who scoffs at the idea of having a family, or the kind of person to die young and leave a beautiful corpse. But there's reasons for this. It's not like I "knew" from the start that this is what I wanted. I've considered it for years, and I still wonder about it sometimes. In any case, I just want to explain where I'm coming from when I say that I want to grow old and have a big family, before anyone calls me typical.

1. Fear of Death

She must have been five years old the first time it happened She was safe in her bed, looking at the shadows created by her night light. Sometimes they scared her more than the dark itself: a witch, in outline, could set her heart racing and inspire vividly beautiful nightmares.

That night her father hadn't been around to put her to bed, and tell her one of the Isidoro stories, so it had been her mum who had tucked her in and kissed her good night, turned off the lights and left the door ajar. She felt her heart pounding, and heard the blood going through the veins in her ears, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. She could hear the blood moving, as though it were separate from her, an entity inside her. She wondered why. Suddenly, time froze, an eternal second between two heartbeats and she knew with a certainty beyond belief, that one day her heart would stop. She felt cold suddenly. She listened, felt her heart, wondering whether that beat, or that, or that, or that, would be the last. She held her knees, trying to think about something else, but there was a realisation drawing her, something waiting to click in her mind. She was cold with fear. She was afraid of herself, of her body, of the fact that it was alive now, and that it would therefore die. She tried to breathe.

She grew older. She was a happy child, a slightly awkward teenager, a confused young woman completely sure of what she wanted. She had fun. She watched movies, she studied, she read, she went out with friends, she drank, she listened to music. And some nights, she still needed to hold herself. The fear was beyond her heart stopping now. It had to do with consciousness, with being herself, with being alive, and it didn't go away. What might have led others to religion, led her to more fear. The knowledge that one day her mind, her thoughts, her feelings would stop existing. That she would not be herself anymore. That it would all be wiped away, in an instant. For some time she yearned for Alzheimer's. She couldn't know for sure, but she suspected that towards the end her grandmother had had no knowledge of her own mortality. Bliss.

Fear of death never went away. She could stop thinking about it, but it was lying beneath the surface. She looked for it sometimes, craved it, because it made her feel alive.

At some point she thought she had beat it. Did it matter if she died, if her children or her grandchildren kept her alive in their memories? She remembered the forgotten millions. Maybe if she built something, if she discovered something? Created something worth remembering? The voice in her head, what she knew to be her truth, was quick to answer: it won't matter. You are going to die, and after you do, it's done. No matter how much or how little you do in this life, no matter if you're happy or miserable, you will die. And once you're dead, you won't know. You can't run.

2. Suicide

There's part of me that once or twice a year wonders if she should just go to the pharmacy, buy sleeping pills and just keep taking them. Help them go down with a swallow or two of tequila (or rum, depending on my mood). Yes, that would be my method of choice. I don't think I could jump of a bridge or slit my wrists, or shoot myself (OK, maybe shoot myself, but getting a gun seems more difficult than getting sleeping pills). I am a coward, after all. But sleeping pills? Combined with painkillers? I could do that I think.

Rationally, I can't see why not. Whatever I do with my life, whatever I achieve, whatever I discover, however happy I am, or miserable, it doesn't matter in the long run. By the end of it I will be dead. We're all going to die, and I have no reason to believe that there's anything after death. Ageing doesn't look that appealing either, and it's not like we're going to have a cure for it any time soon. I might as well get on with it and die now. But then again, I'm human. I am freaked out of dying.

And if I'm not going to have the guts to kill myself, I might as well live, right?

3. The Children

"Sad. I know I'm sad when I don't want to have children anymore, because they will die some day."

It's 8:45. I'm sitting at the bus stop outside Mill Hill East Station. I'm going to have a fairly busy day, and I'm thinking about it. I'm also going over a few more things in my head: plans, people, ideas, characters, the blog post I'm going to be writing later... In any case, I'm far from thinking about sitting at the bus stop, waiting for the 240. Which is why, when it arrives, I have to wait until everyone gets on so I have the time to get my Oyster out.

The bus is crowded: a few kids going to school, some of my colleagues going up Bittacy Hill, and two mothers with strollers. And babies. I stand opposite where they are, close to the bus doors. I look at the one facing me. He's not smiling. I try to catch his eye, but he's looking at his mum telling his sisters off. I know them, I've seen them a few times before, the three identical little girls, about two years apart. They are the cutest thing. I smile at the youngest and she smiles back, joyfully. I turn back to her brother and when he finally looks at me, I open my eyes wide and smile. He starts smiling. I make a funny face and wave at him again, and he starts laughing, and it's glorious to hear.

That's all it takes. I'm not thinking about anything else, I just want to make the baby happy. Because that makes me happy.

This may not sound like a good enough reason to want a kid, but it's the one I have. Completely selfish. I want a kid because children bring me joy, they make me happier than anything else.

I won't lie. I'm not good with kids. I'm alright with babies (in fact, I'm quite good with them, they seem to like me for some reason), but kids don't like me. They get annoyed with me fairly easily, and when they don't (if I'm telling them a story or we're playing some game) they don't respect me. It doesn't matter. I still think they're the best thing. They're curious and innocent and brilliant.

4. Growing Old

A man sits outside the house. He has been sitting there for hours, since before sunrise, looking at the sky. Every time someone walks by, he smiles, says good morning and asks about the husband, the children, the dogs. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him, but he doesn't seem to want company. He's serious, but he seems content to sit and look at the sky.

A little girl, no older than four, walks out of the house. She's wearing a yellow dress and her hair is in pigtails.

-Good morning Angela- the man says, and he doesn't look at the sky anymore.

The little girl turns to look at him, and her face breaks into a smile.

-Good morning Grandpa.

She goes to sit next to him. He still looks at her for a couple of minutes, before resolutely looking back at the sky. She imitates him.

For a few minutes, Angela and her grandfather sit next to each other outside the house, Angela's legs dangling over the edge of the bench, her grandfather's feet firmly on the ground, both of them looking at the sky. Soon, Angela gets restless and starts swinging her legs. She gets up, jumping off the bench.

-What are you doing?- she asks, stepping in front of her grandfather.

He looks down at her, and smiles, the sweetest smile he has given anyone that morning.

-I'm looking at the sky.

-Why? Dad never looks at the sky. -she says suspiciously.

Her grandfather chuckles.

-No, your father doesn't have the time yet, to sit on a bench for a whole morning and wonder at the beauty of this sky.

The girl looks at him a second longer, and then runs inside. He smiles to himself, and then stands up. He stretches his long limbs, and cracks his neck, looking up and down the street as he does so. Then he sits back down and goes back to his sky gazing.