Duck--Duck--Goose!

On Earth Day, Potomac has a tradition of completing a half day of classes followed by bringing all the students outside to help care for our beautiful outdoor campus. This year, my sophomore advisees were paired up with a group of second graders to read a story and then plant milkweed on the hillside above the football field. The day was beautiful, my kids were wonderfully patient, and the younger students were awestruck by their good fortune of having special time with the "big kids." Once our planting was completed, we left the students to their own devices for a bit, and a massive game of duck-duck-goose quickly evolved. It was a pure delight to watch our lanky, sure-footed, quick-witted high school students artfully "forget" to get up or "trip" as they ran around the circle of squealing seven-year-olds. By the time twenty minutes had passed, the stewpot was overflowing with upperclassmen who vigorously cheered on their younger charges.

The sounds of laughter, the smell of the fresh grass, the vision of dappled sunlight brushing across grinning faces--all of it stuck with me for days. However, the part I remember most was the students' eager anticipation as a hand descended on their heads, some squeezing their eyes shut, praying they'd be the golden goose who got to leap up and sprint, others shrinking away, dreading the tap that would seal their fate and require them to stand and run.

As a child, I never wanted to be the goose.

I've never been an athlete--I've never won a championship or triumphed in a match--hence, the reason I never wanted to be selected in the game. However, for the last five months, in my personal game of duck-duck-goose, I've been straightening my spine and wiggling my butt in an anxious attempt to add inches to my short stature, hoping that God will select me as the goose and bestow--quite literally--a golden egg upon me. However, unlike so many of the children in our Earth Day circle, my desire didn't come from unbridled joy; it came from a paralyzing attack of the dreaded What-ifs. What if I'm 35 and not pregnant? What if we can't try for two children anymore? What if she gets pregnant before me? What if I'll never be a mom? What if...?


And then, in the blink of an eye, the What ifs come true. I turned 35 in May. I don't know if we'll have the opportunity to have two little ones. Several girls did get pregnant before me. And, despite all my hopes and prayers and dreams, there's no guarantee I'll be a mom. All my squirming and scooching to add inches got me nowhere--except to a few unattractively bitter pity parties of one.

Perhaps I just need to be content to be a duck. Or a goose. Or whatever God will have me.

Or maybe I need to just enjoy the children's laughter.