There's an opening in management at a location closer to my house, and the head of the HR department spoke to my supervisor about whether or not I'd be interested in transferring. My supervisor then mentioned it to the man I work for directly (there are a whole lot of people I answer to at my place of work, as you can see), and today he asked me if I was happy working for him. "Yeah," I replied, super professional as usual, "Why?"

He explained the conversations and said that he hadn't wanted to say anything to me because he didn't want me to think he wanted me to leave him. However, he wanted me to know that my name had been thrown out for the position and to see how I felt about it. I looked at him, and then away, and I said, "No, I'm not interested in that right now. I do want to stay here right, and I'm happy here. However, I'm going to be completely honest with you. I'm thinking about starting a family, and when and if that happens, I will want to find a position closer to home. It might be within the next year or so." I could feel myself turn beet red and grow sweaty. This conversation was already awkward, and it had just begun. This conversation was already the worst conversation I've ever had, and it wasn't even that bad yet. Just two adults talking about procreating and the job changes that it might entail.

We talked about me having kids, me and my boss. About how it would affect my career, about how I was already aware of myself growing older, about how I thought I was ready, and about how my husband felt about this life-changing decision. At one point, ridiculously uncomfortable, I blurted, "I'm sorry if this is too much information." And my boss replied, "No, it's not. I like talking about this kind of stuff, it's interesting." And suddenly everything was even more uncomfortable, as if that was even possible.

I was scheduled to leave to meet my friend for lunch at 12:30, but at 12:15, right after my boss said he enjoyed talking about "this kind of stuff," I sent her a quick email. "Leaving now to meet you, super awkward here, can you leave too?" And I put on my coat and basically ran out of the office.

The thing is, I'd already thought about applying for that position. Last week, I thought that there might be a chance I was pregnant. For the record, we're not even trying now, and we're not going to try for a few months. But, there was a scare of sorts, an exhilarating, awful, wonderful scare, and when I saw the posting for the position located closer to my home, I told myself that I would apply if I found out I was indeed knocked up. Turns out, I'm so not knocked up that I've already convinced myself that I'm completely barren. Thus, no need to apply for that position, because even though my commute sucks ass, I like my current job. I like my co-workers and clients, and I like my boss, all terrible awkward conversations aside. So why leave now when I have nothing to worry about except for impending plans that may or may not be realized?

The time between thinking I might be pregnant and then finding out that I wasn't was one of the strangest times of my life. It was equal parts joy and terror, and right now I can't fathom feeling like that for a full nine months. I can't look down at my flat belly and imagine it growing round and hard with a new creation. I can't help thinking of all the things that go horribly wrong, or of all the things that could be miraculously normal, which is inexplicably and equally frightening. This is how we all got here, though- all of us dependent on a mystifying process that could go wrong at any second but somehow usually doesn't.

The truth of the matter is that I want a child. That when I think about the life still before me, I can't see any meaning without one. It hit me like a freight train sometime not too long ago, and now I feel like I've been run over by the need and desire. I walk around feeling the burn from the rails. Everything else seems inconsequential, and while I hate myself for thinking that way, I can't help but think that that's how we're programmed. As a woman, I may be hardwired to start feeling this way here in my very late twenties, here after three years of marriage with a wonderful, loving husband, here after owning a house with a "guest bedroom" that is empty save for three, maybe four weekends a year.

And I am so fucking scared. And thrilled. It's nothing right now- it's an idea, and in me I hold only emptiness. But I've put a face to what might fill the emptiness, a vague composite of the things I love about Chris and the pieces of me that I might want to pass to another. There are no guarantees, and I know it will not be easy, ever. It's not even worth talking about right now, because there's nothing to talk about. This, however, is what I am feeling, and it's coming out in the strangest ways. Tears in the bathroom, waking dreams while I lay in my bed, twinges out in public places, all the things right about how I grew up and all of the things wrong. Family portraits and movies and growing old and staying young. And, yes, conversations about my career that ultimately revolve around an idea of a spark of life.