A child is crying outside. This rarely happens here because my apartment complex consists of either working professionals or retirees. The crying has been going on for ever, it seems. It breaks my heart. I have three children and neither lives with me. My oldest son is 19 and plays collegiate basketball in a far away city. We are not in contact. Have not been since he was 14. My daughters, I hope and pray, would come visit me once a week. I want to hold that child who is crying outside. I am sure if I hold it it would calm down swiftly. I want another child. I want to raise a child to adulthood. I want to give a child my breast. I want to go everywhere carrying my infant on me in a sling or frontpack. I want to know what it feels to be empty-nested after your child, or better yet, children, have left for college and you know you have done a good job raising them.

The funny thing, biologically, it is probably possible. My maternal cousin gave birth at 44, for the first time. I show no signs of peri-menopause. I probably have the genes of late fertility. So I sometimes dream of meeting a great guy, going off medications, and conceiving.

In reality, there is no guy. I cannot go off meds for a day - my last time skipping a dose and a half of lithium resulted in $400 spent on services. Forget being off lithium for the whole first trimester.

I am immature and irresponsible. I do not have what it takes to raise a child day in and day out without days off for two decades. I have a hard time managing my own life, forget about having responsibility for someone else.

I have a whole bag of unresolved family stuff from my upbringing and I would just pass it down if I had a child now.

The crying does not stop. It is unbearable. I will leave the scene: I am going to the grocery story to buy rotisserie chicken, to feed myself and my three cats who keep me company. It is clear now what my biggest regret is: not being able to raise a kid into a grown-up.