I always thought that I would get around to having kids at some point but it never seemed to be the right time. My ex-husband had Important Things To Do (or bloody stupid schemes that lost us all our savings, depending on which way you looked at it) so time slipped away and then he was gone. In my more recent long-term relationship it never seemed to be the right time either. With that relationship having been over for almost three years I now find that my body clock is beginning to call time on the decision to have children.
I do regret it, but not so much that I will spend the rest of my life in mourning. I regret the fact that I am the last of two family lines, my father being an only child and my mother's only sibling dieing without children.
Sometimes I wonder what my children might have been like. I once had a dream in which I was shown a red-haired baby girl. The person who showed her to me told me the baby's name and told me that we wouldn't meet in this life but would do so in a future one. It was one of those dreams which are so realistic and it's one I've never forgotten.
I sometimes wonder if anyone will look at my photo albums when I am gone and wonder who the faces were. Who will tell the stories handed down through the family? Stories which will explain such things as the stone rolls which will be dug up by some future archaeologist on the island of Arran. They may try to explain them away as symbolic bread rolls created to "appease" the gods, but in fact they were the result of the wrong sack being delivered off the boat to the bakery my grandfather worked in. Instead of flour they received cement, an error which wasn't noticed until after a batch of rolls had been baked!
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