I want eight kids.
I have my guesses about why, but I don’t know the reason for sure. When I was a teenager, I remember friends asking me about this for the first time. The question caught me off guard. I didn’t have an answer.
Later that night, though, I went home and thought, Eight. Eight sounds like I nice number. I want eight kids. Since then, that number has lodged itself in my brain.
Eight.
Some people, I’m sure, will assume I’m too young to be thinking about this. Grow up first. Get married first. Then start thinking about kids. That’s the way the mantra goes.
Others will assume I’m too old. Well, if you’re going to have eight kids, you better get started. Since you don’t even have a girlfriend right now, you have a long way to go.
Frankly, I’d probably be pretty skeptical of someone in my position saying what I’m saying now. In fact, I am. I’m doubting myself here too. It’s why I’m scared to even write this, much less hit publish.
I don’t know that I’ll have eight kids. I don’t know that I’m even planning that. How can I right now, I mean seriously?
But still, it’s been on my mind for a while now, so I figure I might as well publish it. I’d rather talk about what I’m doing than what I’m going to do, but in this case I’d like to be able to look back on this idea in a decade or two, just to see how ridiculous I feel about it.
That, and part of me still likes the sensation of putting myself out there, calling a destination, and then figuring out how to get there afterward.
Most of all, though, I’m telling you this to prime for something I might try in May.
