It is the first sunny spring day in Vancouver, and I am lazily sipping my mojito at a trendy restaurant on the Drive.
Home to the young and the hip, artists and vegans, musicians and poets – a microcosm of the urban pulse of this soggy city, which changes its demeanour once the sun comes out.
From my comfortable vantage point, I can watch the world go by. Behind my dark glasses, no one can see that I am a visitor from the suburbs, a voyeur of the life resonating around me.
A city alive with noise and energy and colour.
And babies.
I see young mothers pushing their offspring in strollers. These aren’t the Lululemon mommies you see on the West Side. These mothers are not dressed in any specialized neighbourhood uniform. They just look ordinary.
I see the cherubic, edentulous faces of their little ones. Some with smiles, oblivious of the turbulence of life which awaits them. Others asleep without a care in the world.
I am tempted to reach out and tweak their chubby cheeks or tickle their toes. But I restrain myself. I want to pick up a young babe in my arms and cuddle it and make incomprehensible, infantile, cooing sounds at it as if it understands my divinely inspired communication perfectly.
I am suddenly filled with an unfulfilled longing and a yearning that I can no longer ignore.
I want to be a grandmother.
I remember myself as a youngish mother in the ’80s with my two beautiful little girls. I can see long blonde hair and curls and endless smiles.
Pink. I remember the colour pink and the hair bands and the polka dots dresses. I loved to dress my two daughters as if they were miniature fashion models. My very own living dolls.
I should be reliving these moments again but this time with my grandchildren as my friends are doing, I am thinking, as I slurp the last of my minty concoction.
But as I gaze into my empty glass, I am aware this is never going to happen.
Neither of my daughters is interested in having babies. They have made it perfectly clear that motherhood is not on their agenda. Cats, yes. Dogs, very likely.
My eldest daughter has just adopted her second kitten. I made a fuss over the first one and even bought it a gift of a pink litter box. And now the second one has arrived home today and I am feeling less than enthusiastic.
Was it something I did? Were my daughters turned off or frightened by the way I tried to balance a full-time career with marriage and motherhood?
Perhaps the nihilism of today’s millennial youth has trumped their desire to procreate. Maybe it is the realization they can’t have it all or don’t even want to try. Can’t afford a house and certainly can’t afford to raise a child.
Are they afraid of the pain of childbirth or being responsible for another human being?
Is it easier and safer to love an animal whose love is unconditional?
Then again, it is really none of my business and I should accept that it’s not about me and my wants but them making their way in a crazy world and sharing love in a way that feels right for them.
Four furry legs instead of two chubby ones.
My new grandkitty’s name is Sebastian… I wonder if they make blue litter boxes.
April Lewis is the local communications director for CARP, a national group committed to a ‘New Vision of Aging for Canada.’ She writes monthly.
