Another Version of Me Has Kids

I’m flying through 4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster. In one version of the protagonist’s life, Archie finds out he’s sterile. The doctor says the sperm count is “far below normal,” and it rattles him. Not because he was desperate for kids in that moment, but because he always assumed he’d have them. That he’d be a link in the chain, not the end of it. That part hit me.

I don’t have kids. I don’t know if I ever will. On some days, I want them. I picture raising curious, kind little humans who grow up to be forces for good. Other days, I think teaching is enough. I spend my days helping young people grow. Beneath the swing of those moods, I suspect I do want kids. Someday. But not yet. If I have kids, I want to add to the good side of the ledger. Too many people have children they resent, ignore, or pass their pain onto. I want to raise humans who make things better.

Now, I like living alone. I like hearing the spring air chirp through my open window and knowing I can follow any whim: write, travel, disappear into a book. I have plans that orbit only me. And I know how selfish that sounds. Perhaps it’s the right kind of selfish. I don’t want to raise kids out of obligation, or panic, or because “everyone else is doing it.” Some of my peers already have children. Their kids are in school. Sometimes I feel behind. Sometimes I feel lucky.

Archie wasn’t trying to start a family. He was doing a favor. Still, when he learns the truth, it stings. Not because of what he wants, but because of what he can’t. That stuck with me. Right now, I think I can. I haven’t taken any tests. I assume everything’s working as it should. But nothing is promised. Not fertility. Not time.

Paul Auster weaves Archie through multiple universes with different lives shaped by chance, love, and timing. So, somewhere, sometime even, I have kids. Perhaps I married one of my exes. It worked out better than it did in this universe. We had three kids: Theodore (after my grandfather), Ophelia (it’s a great name!), and Thomas (obviously after Tommy in Peaky Blinders). I can imagine this life in glimpses, short peeks into what that life looks like. My wife and I struggle over bills when the kids are in bed, but in general, we’re fairly happy. Our goal is a small vacation each April.

This version of me didn’t visit Europe for three months. He had to stop reenacting as much to help with the family. He’s happier in some senses, but he’s sacrificed elsewhere. If the gods don’t strike me down, I’ll have kids. I feel that is in my cards, it’s on the lines of my palm.
Maybe I’ll be ready one day. Maybe not. Maybe this is one of those stories that cuts to a gray-haired version of me, sitting on the porch, thinking about what could’ve been. Or maybe I’ll be chasing a toddler through a museum in some foreign city, smiling through the chaos.