filling the silence in the motherhood discussion
Your cousin announces that baby number 8 is on the way. Your Great Aunt Tillie asks when you are going to have kids. Your mother gives you a pointed look when she mentions how lucky her friend Gladys is to have so many grandchildren.
Wanna get away?
In lieu of yesterday’s Whiny Wednesday, I’m offering the Thanksgiving Safe Zone today. If it all gets too much, just come on over and let it all out here.
Someone will be around to hear you, I promise.
Thanksgiving is a funny holiday in our house. As I didn’t grow up here, the holiday doesn’t hold any special meaning to me (even though I love the traditional turkey dinner), plus my family members are on the other side of the world and don’t celebrate it anyway. My husband’s family is close by, but his kids always go to their mother’s house and his sister and dad aren’t really the kind to sit around the big family table and celebrate together.
Usually Jose and I head out of town, but this year we didn’t quite pull our plans together in time, so we’re just going to stay home. I’m perfectly ok with these plans as we could use a few quiet days to ourselves, but somewhere inside me is an ember of an idea about how the holiday should be.
In my dream I have a long oak table laden with good food that I’ve spent the past few days creating. Around the table are all my favorite adults, talking, having intelligent conversations, and periodically glancing my way to rave about the food. When I think about a big family holiday, I think about my friends. They are the family I’ve chosen and I am thankful to have them in my life.
So I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving, including our far-flung readers who might be reading this and wondering what the ruckus is all about. I also know that the holidays can be trying for we childless and childfree peeps, so I’m moving Whiny Wednesday to tomorrow, just in case it all gets out of control.
Be well and Happy Thanksgiving to you.
This week I received the final cover design for my upcoming book, and next week the e-reader version of the book will be released.
It’s hard to describe all the emotions I’m riding through right now – excitement, pride, anxiety, second-guessing, and something else, some kind of melancholy.
I’m excited because this project has been a long time in the works. I’ve written it, added to it, edited it, and then last year I scrapped the entire manuscript (I mean every word of it) and started again with a blank page. (I’m getting a stomach ache just thinking about that!) It had to be done and I’m glad I did it, but it was hard.
I’m proud because I stuck to it, I finished it, I didn’t let it collect dust in the bottom drawer of my desk, and I have fought to get it published and out into the world.
Which is where the anxiety comes in.
I’m anxious about putting such a personal story out there for everyone to see. Not so much the people who will hopefully benefit from reading it, but the lookie-loos, people who know me, or my husband, and want to get the gossip. I’m also anxious about the people in the book – my family and friends, my husband’s family – people who said or did the wrong thing without ever knowing it, and unwittingly gave me material. But everything in the story happened, and (as my friend Jeff says) it’s not mean if it’s true. But I still worry about what they’ll think.
I can’t quite figure out the melancholy. Maybe it comes from the feeling of something coming to an end (even though I know that many new things are just beginning), I’m not sure. An acquaintance asked me how I came to choose the topic and I explained that this is my story and that the topic chose me. And maybe that’s where the melancholy comes from. I’m very glad I wrote this book, but there’s still a part of me that wishes the topic had chosen someone else instead.
Not having kids, I thought I’d dodged the whole sleep deprivation thing. I love my sleep, so I dreaded the thought of being woken up several times during the night to tend to someone else’s needs, and then sleeping in a half-dozing state, with one ear open to make sure that the other person was still breathing.
But then I got married. And my husband has decided to become an insomniac–a vocal insomniac. So after an hour or so of his tossing and turning, I am finally going to sleep, only to be woken up at 3 a.m. and told that he can’t sleep (as if it wasn’t evident to me) and that his heart is racing. He then reads to try to fall back to sleep; I snap on a sleep mask, stick my head under the covers, and try to stop worrying that if I go to sleep he will have a heart attack and I won’t know until it’s too late.
So this morning I am tired and consequently whiny. Luckily for me, it’s Whiny Wednesday and I can complain about it to you. Feel free to gripe right back at me.
Last night I sat down to write a bunch of posts to keep on hand as the holidays open up next week and attempt to gobble me whole. I figured if I can get ten or so pieces drafted, I can pull from them if I find myself falling behind.
Instead, I ended up hanging out on everyone else’s blogs. Ah well.
The good news is that I found this hilarious post on Julie’s blog A Little Pregnant (not a blog I would ordinarily hang out on, but you start on one person’s blog and before you know it you’re back at the old infertility blogs again.)
Please, take a moment and check out her imaginary Facebook page. It’s brilliant. I think we’ve all had experience with these sorts of “friends.”
And Facebook is a hot topic on the forums right now.
I’ve recently noticed that fewer and fewer of my favorite people are posting on Facebook anymore. Perhaps they’re out having interesting lives instead.
As a writer, less than 50% of my time is spent writing and the rest is spent marketing. It’s one of the many ways in which the profession has changed over the years. As part of my marketing campaign, my email signature includes links to my two most recently published articles (one about dealing with infertility, the other about being a family of two) , a link to this web site, and a note that my new book (a memoir) will be coming out soon! All of these things point blatantly to the fact that I am childless and infertile.
Recently I was in a room of ten people, some of whom I knew but most of whom I’d never met before. I had spoken to them all via email and included my signature. It dawned on me that every single person in the room knew these very intimate details of my life. Believe it not, despite airing my life here on this blog, I am a very private person, and I had a sudden moment of panic and discomfort knowing that everyone knew this information about me. I may as well have pinned a scarlet “I” to my dress.
Later, one of the men I’ve known for a number of years told me he’d read my articles and didn’t realize that my husband and I had dealt with infertility. He and his wife are childless, too. Another woman who I’d never met before also came up to me after the meeting and mentioned that she too was childless-not-by-choice.
Finding kindred spirits in those two people more than made up for the others knowing all my secrets. I am not proud of being infertile, but I am no longer ashamed of it either.
Living so far away from my mother (6,000 miles) I spend a fair amount of time worrying about what’s going to happen to her when she gets old.
My mother is 78 (I’m sure she won’t mind me telling you) but she still rides her bike, runs, dances, and practices Tai Chi. But I can see her slowing down and I know she’s not going to live forever.
My brothers and I have discussed this. We acknowledge that minor emergencies and issues will continue to fall to my middle brother, who lives the closest to my mum—about 8 miles. My older brother will most likely take care of anything that needs organizing, should my mum need more long-term care. As for me, I live too far away to do much at all. But I don’t want to regret not being there when my mother needed me, so Jose and I have discussed the possibility of me spending large chunks of time with my mother as she ages. My work will allow me to do that, as will my very understanding husband, and of course, I don’t have children to take care of, so I have that flexibility.
I’m fortunate to have brothers who don’t squabble about who will take care of our mother, but I have friends who don’t have that relationship, and it seems that the responsibility often falls to one sibling, and quite often it’s the one who doesn’t have children.
I’m wondering… do you feel that your childless/childfree status will enable you to be there as your parents age, or does it just mean that your family will expect you to carry the load because you have “no other responsibilities?”
Last night my husband asked me, “What’s coal tar?”
I didn’t know exactly, so I did what I usually do, which is to piece together the bits of information I do know about coal and tar and try to fudge an answer. As is also common (and one of the things I love about my husband) this turned into a discussion about how coal and oil are formed and if all living things are carbon based. But it still didn’t answer the original question about coal tar.
I decided that I’d look it up when we got home, but something else came up and I got busy and so I never did get my answer, and neither did my husband. It occurred to me that if I had children, I’d have found an answer. I’d have done the research until I could give them a good explanation. So I wonder, am I missing an education because I don’t have kids? Or am I just missing my re-education?
I used to know about a lot of things. I could identify birds, knew the names of all the dinosaurs, and knew which color paints to mix to make the colors I didn’t have. I knew how to French knit, do a cat’s cradle, and build a model theatre out of cereal boxes. I also learned most of the periodic table and could list all the kings and queens of England in historical order. And I used to know the difference between how coal and oil are formed. But now I just can’t exactly remember. If I had kids, I’d have to learn all that stuff again and I’d be glad to.
I realize that this isn’t life-saving information I’m missing, but it would be nice to be able to pop out in conversation that Edward VI was Henry VIII’s son and heir, and that coal tar is a by-product of converting coal into coke.
Last week my mum went home to England after spending six weeks with us. It’s always a bittersweet departure. While she’s here, my life is disrupted, work doesn’t get done, my daily routine is all off, and I never seem to see much of my husband. By the time she leaves I’m ready to get my life back, but I’m never glad to see her go. I know it’s going to be at least six months before I see her again and I know that if she ever really needed me (or vice versa) we are 24 hours away from one another. I often worry that one day that will be too far. But I’ve chosen my life and she accepts it, and we both know that even though we only see one another twice a year, over the course of a year she actually spends more hours with me than with either of my brothers. Somehow the arrangement works out for us.
I live by the beach, (so naturally, I seldom actually go to the beach) and over the course of her visits we’ve developed a tradition of going to the beach on her last day here. It’s always a glorious day, even if the weather has been mediocre for the rest of her trip. We walk down to the beach, get an ice cream, put our feet in the ocean for a while, and then lay on the sand in the sun.
This time we dozed for a while and at one point I woke up and looked at my mum asleep beside me. I was overcome by just how much I loved her. It’s such a deep, binding love, different to the way I love my husband, or my friends. She is my mother. I am a part of her and because of that we will always be inseparable. It was an almost primal feeling.
And then of course, the other feeling struck me. I realized that no one will ever feel that way about me, and likewise I will never know what it feels like to love my own child.
It was a fleeting thought, not one to linger and bring me down, but I daresay it’s a thought I will have again, probably the next time I say goodbye to my mum.
I don’t know if these are popular where you are, but in my neighborhood, they’re everywhere. They used to annoy me. I begrudged the smug little families competing against one another for the glory of biggest, most interesting, or cutest family. Isn’t it enough that you have a family without having to parade them around as well?
Anyway, I’m over it now. When I take off my Baby Grinch hat, I have to admit that these stickers are pretty cute. What’s more, according to the company website, they’re only $2.99 a figure, which means that since my goldfish passed away last month, I can get my entire family—Jose, me, and the cat—for under $10!
Now that’s something to be smug about.
~ "a raw, transparent account of the gut-wrenching journey of infertility."
~ "a welcome sanity check for women left to wonder how society became so fixated on motherhood."
