discussion with a young child in a while, I strongly recommend it. It will be time well spent.) Meanwhile, I'm also aware that I won't have a long life either; longer than my child's, most likely (I'm 40), but almost certainly not as long as my parents', grandparents', or great-grandparents' lives. Sometimes this prospect is horribly depressing, and I think to myself, I'm not ready for this! I need more time to make something of myself. I want to leave my imprint on the world. But what kind of imprint can be left in a world without people, without memory? There's still so much I want to write, so many more projects I want to take on, so much to learn, so much self-actualizing that I want to do. And I wanted to be the most splendid mom ever. Now I must confront the door of the hospice where dreams go to die. My hand is on the doorknob. And I'm in charge of populating that hospice with my own appointed caregivers that I seek out in places both mundane and surprising, and also responsible for being one of those caregivers myself, to everyone I love and those I encounter who are in need. Unsurprisingly, I'm also letting go of the prospect of having any more children. I have no doubt this is the right decision, and yet there's a part of me that mourns my potential child(ren). I'm letting go of the idea that I will somehow perfect myself