Wishful Thinking

Wishful Thinking

            She peers into the door of a first grade class, watching the children as they color.  The teacher has asked them to draw what they want to be when they grow up.  The children gleefully held up childish pictures of astronauts and ballerinas.  Some held up pictures of classrooms where they hope to teach, and others held up pictures of pets they hope to cure and take care of.  In the corner of the room, a girl with wide-hazel eyes and pigtails held up a picture of a house.  Next to the house were a family of three with a swing-set and a big tree with a tire swing and a big, blue arrow pointing to the slightly taller stick-figure.  The picture was advanced for a six year old child.  The teacher walks over to the child shaking her head.  The lowered eyebrows express the teacher’s disapproval. 

            “Emily, you were supposed to draw what you wanted to be when you grew up,” the teacher says.

            “I did,” the girl says cheerfully. 

            “Okay.  Then tell me what you want to be when you grow up.”

            “I wanna be a mom.  Can’t you tell Ms. Evans?”  The girl seemed so innocent in her request, as she points to the taller stick-figure.  “That’s me, and those are my kids.  Lizzy and Elliott.”  

*****

             I was the secretary of the Estacada Elementary school.  Each day classes were held, I worked from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon answering the phone and emails, handing out visitor’s passes, and making the coffee.  Instead of teaching children how to read and write, I taught parents how to write legibly and behave like adults.  Instead of a classroom I had a wooden desk outside the principal’s office with a computer, phone, calendar, and stack of “sick” notes.  I was only the secretary.  But working in a school gave me a bit of flexibility.  The evenings were mine to spend as I wanted. 

            I owned a cute, little house on Sixth Street.  I did all the landscaping; the small garden, stepping stones, and the little pond with a fountain were all the work of my hands over a couple short summers.  In the winter, the hill outside my back porch is covered in snow as well as the swing set left from the previous owners.  On snowy days, kids from my block rush over to ask to borrow my hill for sledding.  The kids would sled down the hill doing all sorts of tricks to avoid the swing-set.  Inside my small kitchen, I would have hot chocolate and marshmallows ready to hand out when they were finished in the snow.  The kids would knock the malted snow off their boots and lineup to receive their mug of hot chocolate and scoop of marshmallows.  After a few snowy days, I was widely known throughout the small town as the marshmallow lady. 

            Beyond my marshmallow generosity, no one knew much about me.  Staff Christmas parties were painful as I sat in the corner alone as people chattered and exchanged gifts.  I had grown up in Portland and moved to Estacada after graduating High School.  It was a short drive home for the holidays.  I took online classes through the Portland Community College, traveling back as little as possible.  The college had a teaching certification program that I was slowly making my way through. 

Working at an elementary school taught me most of what I know about kids.  I grew up in a small family that was rooted in a large family.  My mom and dad decided to only have two kids, but after complications with the second pregnancy, they decided not to try anymore.  My dad left my mom, sister, and me when I was three.  I don’t know anything about my dad except what my mom has told me.  I grew up without a dad.  I didn’t know the difference, until high school.

Unlike other kids who could skim by in high school without a job, I couldn’t.  I worked as often as I could as well as carried on a full load of classes.  I paid the bills and took care of the house while my mom was in and out of town with work.  My sister, who was two years younger than I was, led the life that I wanted.  She never had to work and she got all the boys.  Most nights, I knew my sister would be out with a guy she had been dating for a while off and on.  She could care less about me or mom.  I managed to get by and graduate high school.  Because I didn’t have the money to go to college, nor the grades for scholarships, I decided to hunt for work outside of Portland after high school.  Due to my work experience in high school, I was able to get this job at Estacada elementary school. 

By this time, I was a quarter of a century old, and I was still not doing my dream job.  I was not married and I didn’t have any prospects.  Estacada wasn’t exactly the place to hunt for the man of your dreams.  In fact, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to find a guy around my age in Estacada.  Most men who grow up here begin working on the family farm right out of high school, if they even finish high school at all!  Needless to say, a man didn’t look like he will be in my near future.

On the holidays, I travel back to Portland.  I try my hardest to behave for the family gatherings.  I hardly get in the door before aunts and uncles overwhelm me with questions like “Are you married yet?”  I remain as calm as can be expected.  I don’t know if they realize where I work, but there aren’t many men lying around a small-town public school. 

The last time I went home for Christmas, I was twenty-four years old.  I had been having some severe abdominal pain and wanted to check it out so I made an appointment with my doctor.  The troubled look on my doctor’s face had me worried.  He immediately referred me to a gynecologist and I sat in Dr. Stevenson’s office within the week.  After numerous tests and visits to his office, we sat in the plain white examination room as he told me I had stage two, ovarian cancer.  I didn’t know how to respond.  It was as if my mind went blank.  Nothing else mattered at that moment.  I arrived back in Portland on Monday, January 26^th to receive a total hysterectomy.  As my doctor tried to explain what was happening, I zoned out.  My entire life seemed to be ruined.  Every life plan ever constructed by my hands went down the drain.  Apparently, my surgery went well.  I haven’t had any complications since.  The cancer is gone, but the damage remains.

I went back to work soon after I fully recovered.  Seeing the kids play on the playground was torture.  Picking up sick children for the parents from the nurse’s office seemed to tear me apart.  I would return with tears strolling down my face as I gave the child’s hand to his or her parent.  Unruly parents bugged my core.  But I made it through. 

Spring came and so my gardening work began once again.  I was working outside the day the invitation arrived.  A baby shower invite for one of the staff was being held in a couple weeks.  Anger bubbled from within me as I ran inside the house slamming the door behind me.  I threw myself onto the couch where I had spent nearly six weeks of my life recovering from the wretched surgery that tore my childhood dreams apart.  I wondered how long this feeling would last.  This feeling of anger and resentment toward any young couples with children dwelt within. 

I was not looking forward to the approaching Easter holiday for the resurrection of the dreaded question from family members.  My mom and sister hardly knew about the hysterectomy, none the less to tell more people that I will never be able to have children of my own.  The house went quiet as I walked in for the Easter afternoon festivities.  I wasn’t sure how everyone knew, but they all did.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  Luckily, my grandma announced that lunch was ready and so the awkward silence was broken.  No one asked about it, but everyone asked how I was doing.  I replied “Fine.”  Not once did I mention my sudden urge for a child, to behold it in all its glory.  Not once did I mention that I wouldn’t mind the smell of the poopy diaper or the constant waking in the night to feed my child.  Not once did I mention my childhood dream of being a mom.  After everyone had gone their separate ways, my mom gave me an envelope on her way out the door.  Inside was two pieces of paper.  One was a letter that said:

My Dear Emily,

I know that things have been rough and I know I haven’t always been around for it all.  But know that I love you and I am here for you now.  Never lose sight of your dreams.  No matter what.

                                    Love Always,  Mom

            Behind the letter there was a piece of white paper folded in quarters.  I unfolded the paper to find my drawing.  My mom had kept my picture of me and my two invisible kids all those years.  Tears streamed from my eyes.  I wasn’t sure how it was going to happen, but I was going to help make my dream come true.  It may have been wishful thinking back then, but it isn’t today.  Just ask Lizzy and Elliott, who spend their snowy days sledding down the hill with the marshmallow lady, their mom, me. 

*****

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© Copyright 2011, Samantha Fomera

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