I will be thirty years old in about another half an hour. If I were living in Australia or China I would be thirty already.
A few years ago, thirty seemed so old. Practically ancient. And I thought that I would have my act together by then.
Turns out, not so much.
When I was young(er), I wanted to be a surgeon. A female McDreamy if you will. Then I worked at a bank and there were no specific dreams as such. Then I wanted to be a judge.
Today I was thinking about all those things as Baby and I took a nice evening stroll and I realised that throughout I always wanted to be a writer. The thing is that as I go about my day, everyday I make up stories. They maybe brand new ones, different endings to things I face, alternative endings to books and movies long after I'm done with them. I even make up sort of epilogues for books I read and movies I watch about what happens to the characters afterwards.
Today it hit me. What an idiot! If only I had written these stories down, the collection I would have amassed by now.
What am I now? I like to think that I'm on the path of becoming a home maker. What about all your education, people are quick to ask. So what about it? I will still use it. Just at home.
I cannot in all certainty say that I will never work outside home again. A time might come where Darling being the sole provider will not be enough. One can never tell. Even if we had to scrape through I am happy to be home raising our son. I surprise people when I say that. I think I was the most surprised when it dawned on me. That I want to be a stay-at-home mom and home-maker. It is something that I never envisioned for myself.
Why then?
Beacause I want to make and bake and sew and garden and grow our own veggies and have chickens and have a cow and make cheese and write stories and most most importantly raise my son.
That is what I want. And looks like this dream is here to stay.
