I was getting dinner ready last night and my husband, I assume sensing the lowered mood, gave me a hug.
He asked how I was doing.
"Better than the last couple of days, actually."
"Feeling bad?"
"Not physically."
"Depressed?"
"Yep. But it'll pass. It always does. Membership in my childless clubhouse has dwindled... in fact, it's empty."
It was a very, very brief conversation from there as I really wasn't in the mood, or the right place, to discuss the matter.
He talked about how the couple in question had really wanted kids, came up in families with siblings (and point which made little sense... so did the both of us, even though our parents split; but so did Big Poppa's).
"You really want kids," he asked, with a somewhat surprised tone.
I looked at him, tired. "Honestly, most days, I'm fine with it," I said, not answering the question.
He made his now standard jokish "I don' want no bebbehs" line. I just looked at him and said "Don't. Please don't."
He made some protestation that if we were to have a child, one of our lifestyles would have to change. "Probably mine," I said. He protested it would be his that would change.
Admittedly, he's probably right. But change isn't necessarily bad. He has said in the past that he would have to give up riding the motorcycle, though I've never expressed that expectation. He might have to cut out long road trips for the first year or two, but I would never ask him to give up something that's been part of his life for 20 years, and something which we have enjoyed together.
His own limitations on this one are of his own making. Life does change with children, I'm smart enough to know that. But change doesn't necessarily mean deprivation from the things you enjoy. It just may mean less of those things.
I pulled my leftovers from the microwave, put his in and sat down with my food. Managed to not cry. That urge has become less in less in the days since the newest arrival's arrival.
But I really didn't want to talk about it then. Not while the urge to cry was still coming and going.
And I swear, honestly. Most days... not having children doesn't both me. There are periodic flashes, though...
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Doris
I once talked with a woman named Doris, who, in her 60s, went back to college to pursue a master's degree in education.
Then she completed her PhD.
A widow, Doris and her husband had a full, full life together. They were a wonderful couple. And then, in the early 2000s, he died. That's when Doris went on to finish her graduate work.
I asked her once why she studied education. She said it was because she loved children and teaching children, even though she and her husband never had children.
For a brief moment — quite literally the blink of an eye — there was a slight expression that crossed her face, a sadness in her eyes.
"I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind." I didn't. I'd just been curious.
In the years since then, I've come to understand that look a little better.
Then she completed her PhD.
A widow, Doris and her husband had a full, full life together. They were a wonderful couple. And then, in the early 2000s, he died. That's when Doris went on to finish her graduate work.
I asked her once why she studied education. She said it was because she loved children and teaching children, even though she and her husband never had children.
For a brief moment — quite literally the blink of an eye — there was a slight expression that crossed her face, a sadness in her eyes.
"I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind." I didn't. I'd just been curious.
In the years since then, I've come to understand that look a little better.
Wanna hold the baby?
Whenever a friend has a baby, there's the inevitable visit. And within that inevitable visit is the inevitable question: "Wanna hold the baby?"
I always struggle a little bit with that one.
On the one hand... yes, I would like to hold the baby. I adore holding babies. They are, for the most part, incredibly peaceful in those first couple of weeks. They smell wonderful. They're warm. They make some interesting noises. They have a very calming effect.
On the other hand... no, I can't. Holding a baby, especially one that's newly born, only enhances my desire to have a child of my own. Holding a baby reminds me that I can't, and pulls at my heart just a little bit.
And so it was recently. I held the newest baby in our social network. She was small and beautiful and perfect. For at least half an hour, she lay tucked on my chest while the group of assembled friends talked and laughed.
I was a little worried when I got to the hospital, as there was noone at the front desk and I had no idea where to go. While I was following signs, I heard my name, and there was Big Poppa. The in-laws had taken him out to eat; Momma had all but thrown him out so he could get some fresh air and food.
And he told me something that made me smile (and of course also made me ache a little). While they were eating, he felt this pull. This invisible string pulling him back to the hospital. He couldn't wait to get back up there to see his brand new little girl. He couldn't bear to be away from her for very long. There is a light about him now that wasn't there before.
He was wrapped around her wee pinky finger and she was barely a day old.
Another couple was there when I arrived, and left about half an hour later. So it was me and the new family. I (grudingly) gave up the sweet-smelling, popping, squeaking, warm, sleeping bundle when the end of visiting hours approached. Big Poppa set about changing her diaper.
It was an endearing affair. I've changed diapers before (how is it, by the way, that I have all of this mommy experience which I don't really get to use as a mommy???). He hadn't. As the wee one wailed (sounding a bit like what I would imagine a pterodactyl must have sounded like) and flailed, he methodically cleaned her and put her in a new clean diaper, and then burrito-wrapped her. The crying stopped, the flailing stopped. And he held her in one hand, looking at her with the most pure, true love, while Momma sat on the bed, getting ready to stand up.
So I did what I do best, I slipped quietly back into a corner, and raised a camera. The quiet moment passed, hugs were shared.
I eased out of the room quietly, and made my way to the elevator.
I was holding back tears.
I was delightfully happy for them.
I tried like crazy not to cry on my way home.
Once home, as I was fixing myself something to eat, my husband asked how everything was. I replied. He came into the kitchen.
"Did holding the baby set your clock off?"
"Nope. That happened yesterday."
I always struggle a little bit with that one.
On the one hand... yes, I would like to hold the baby. I adore holding babies. They are, for the most part, incredibly peaceful in those first couple of weeks. They smell wonderful. They're warm. They make some interesting noises. They have a very calming effect.
On the other hand... no, I can't. Holding a baby, especially one that's newly born, only enhances my desire to have a child of my own. Holding a baby reminds me that I can't, and pulls at my heart just a little bit.
And so it was recently. I held the newest baby in our social network. She was small and beautiful and perfect. For at least half an hour, she lay tucked on my chest while the group of assembled friends talked and laughed.
I was a little worried when I got to the hospital, as there was noone at the front desk and I had no idea where to go. While I was following signs, I heard my name, and there was Big Poppa. The in-laws had taken him out to eat; Momma had all but thrown him out so he could get some fresh air and food.
And he told me something that made me smile (and of course also made me ache a little). While they were eating, he felt this pull. This invisible string pulling him back to the hospital. He couldn't wait to get back up there to see his brand new little girl. He couldn't bear to be away from her for very long. There is a light about him now that wasn't there before.
He was wrapped around her wee pinky finger and she was barely a day old.
Another couple was there when I arrived, and left about half an hour later. So it was me and the new family. I (grudingly) gave up the sweet-smelling, popping, squeaking, warm, sleeping bundle when the end of visiting hours approached. Big Poppa set about changing her diaper.
It was an endearing affair. I've changed diapers before (how is it, by the way, that I have all of this mommy experience which I don't really get to use as a mommy???). He hadn't. As the wee one wailed (sounding a bit like what I would imagine a pterodactyl must have sounded like) and flailed, he methodically cleaned her and put her in a new clean diaper, and then burrito-wrapped her. The crying stopped, the flailing stopped. And he held her in one hand, looking at her with the most pure, true love, while Momma sat on the bed, getting ready to stand up.
So I did what I do best, I slipped quietly back into a corner, and raised a camera. The quiet moment passed, hugs were shared.
I eased out of the room quietly, and made my way to the elevator.
I was holding back tears.
I was delightfully happy for them.
I tried like crazy not to cry on my way home.
Once home, as I was fixing myself something to eat, my husband asked how everything was. I replied. He came into the kitchen.
"Did holding the baby set your clock off?"
"Nope. That happened yesterday."
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
2008: A Baby Bomb Odyssey
It was the year that made 2009 hell for me. In 2008, the announcements were coming fast and furious:
• An employee was expecting his second child.
• My cousin was expecting her first.
• A friend and his girlfriend were expecting their first.
• A former coworker was expecting her first.
• A comrade from the parent company was expecting her first.
• An employee's daughter was expecting her first.
• My high school sweetheart (and good friend) was about to become a daddy for the second time.
I made baby blankets for all of them except the employee (who got one on his first child's birth). I made a bunny for his daughter so she wouldn't be left out once the baby came. It was this rash of babies that later led to the "only personal friends get blankets" rule.
Making the blankets was a form of therapy for me. Making them gave me something to do with my hands while watching movies, but doing so also helped me to channel the inevitable pangs I felt. Everyone, it felt, was moving forward in life, progressing, growing. And it felt like I wasn't.
These people would get to embark on what I think is life's greatest adventure. But not me. My path is different. Mine is the road less traveled.
As the babies arrived, so did the emotional pain. In 2009, as the packages were delivered, my clock started ticking... furiously. One night, my husband and I were watching an episode of House. It was the Maternity episode, and as the babies cried, I felt something I had never felt before: an incredibly intense desire to crawl into that television screen, find those babies and comfort them, hold them, get them to stop crying. That was quickly followed by the urge to cry.
There was standing at a trade convention with one of my best friends and the comrade from the parent company, who was probably 6 months along. After a couple of minutes, the conversation inevitably turned to being pregnant and being a mom. They chatted excitedly. I said nothing; I had nothing to add to that conversation; I had no common ground with them at that point. After what felt like an eternity (but really was only about 5 or 10 minutes), I slipped away and found something else to do, managing not to break down in tears.
There were dreams; Dreams so vivid that when I woke up, I could remember the sensation of giving birth, and it took some time to remember that it was a dream — it wasn't real. But it was clear — I gave birth to a boy with a thick head of black hair in that dream. It was my son. I woke up before I saw his face. In a dream prior to that, I had a bizarre (so weird I won't describe it) dream in which I had very tiny triplets.
I told very, very few people about any of this. One of my best friends (my soul sister, a mother to three) knows. My husband knows most of it.
My husband and I had several, all too brief conversations once the friend and his girlfriend (who married before the baby arrived) had their child. Many of those conversations standing in front of their apartment.
He conceded in one conversation that he does think about having children, but the notion scares him. He worried about not being a good parent. I tried to tell him that the mere fact that he had such a concern meant he would be a much better parent than most. And then I pointed to the apartment. "Do you think he's not scared right now? Because I guarantee you he's absolutely terrified." We talked some more, and he gave me a long, heart-felt hug.
As I move closer to 40, I really do become more and more okay with not having children. But when there's a change in the structure of our social network (i.e.: friends having children), I become sad for a little while.
It's more complicated than "the clock is ticking." It's sadness; mourning for something I can't have, but that my friends can.
So I put my heart into the blankets. And brace for the next round of baby bombs.
• An employee was expecting his second child.
• My cousin was expecting her first.
• A friend and his girlfriend were expecting their first.
• A former coworker was expecting her first.
• A comrade from the parent company was expecting her first.
• An employee's daughter was expecting her first.
• My high school sweetheart (and good friend) was about to become a daddy for the second time.
I made baby blankets for all of them except the employee (who got one on his first child's birth). I made a bunny for his daughter so she wouldn't be left out once the baby came. It was this rash of babies that later led to the "only personal friends get blankets" rule.
Making the blankets was a form of therapy for me. Making them gave me something to do with my hands while watching movies, but doing so also helped me to channel the inevitable pangs I felt. Everyone, it felt, was moving forward in life, progressing, growing. And it felt like I wasn't.
These people would get to embark on what I think is life's greatest adventure. But not me. My path is different. Mine is the road less traveled.
As the babies arrived, so did the emotional pain. In 2009, as the packages were delivered, my clock started ticking... furiously. One night, my husband and I were watching an episode of House. It was the Maternity episode, and as the babies cried, I felt something I had never felt before: an incredibly intense desire to crawl into that television screen, find those babies and comfort them, hold them, get them to stop crying. That was quickly followed by the urge to cry.
There was standing at a trade convention with one of my best friends and the comrade from the parent company, who was probably 6 months along. After a couple of minutes, the conversation inevitably turned to being pregnant and being a mom. They chatted excitedly. I said nothing; I had nothing to add to that conversation; I had no common ground with them at that point. After what felt like an eternity (but really was only about 5 or 10 minutes), I slipped away and found something else to do, managing not to break down in tears.
There were dreams; Dreams so vivid that when I woke up, I could remember the sensation of giving birth, and it took some time to remember that it was a dream — it wasn't real. But it was clear — I gave birth to a boy with a thick head of black hair in that dream. It was my son. I woke up before I saw his face. In a dream prior to that, I had a bizarre (so weird I won't describe it) dream in which I had very tiny triplets.
I told very, very few people about any of this. One of my best friends (my soul sister, a mother to three) knows. My husband knows most of it.
My husband and I had several, all too brief conversations once the friend and his girlfriend (who married before the baby arrived) had their child. Many of those conversations standing in front of their apartment.
He conceded in one conversation that he does think about having children, but the notion scares him. He worried about not being a good parent. I tried to tell him that the mere fact that he had such a concern meant he would be a much better parent than most. And then I pointed to the apartment. "Do you think he's not scared right now? Because I guarantee you he's absolutely terrified." We talked some more, and he gave me a long, heart-felt hug.
As I move closer to 40, I really do become more and more okay with not having children. But when there's a change in the structure of our social network (i.e.: friends having children), I become sad for a little while.
It's more complicated than "the clock is ticking." It's sadness; mourning for something I can't have, but that my friends can.
So I put my heart into the blankets. And brace for the next round of baby bombs.
Monday, February 4, 2013
The Mommy Club
One of my best friends (I have three) had a baby yesterday. She's defected from the childless club to the Mommy Club.
I love her dearly, and I am incredibly happy for her. Her daughter is painfully lovely and perfect and serene.
But my Clubhouse is now empty. None of my close girl friends (I just don't make that many) are here anymore. Heck, most of the guys aren't here anymore either. They've joined the Daddy Club.
So I'm going to wallow in selfishness for a minute or two.
That's three hiking buddies (or potential hiking buddies) I've lost to the clubs for parents:
• First - my cousin, who is like a sister to me. We camped so much together, she was supposed to go backpacking with me one summer... and then she got pregnant.
• Second - a male friend's girlfriend (now wife). About the time I'd planned on asking her to hike with me... she got pregnant.
• Third - my best friend, who did go backpacking with me. And well, she got pregnant, too.
So now I have to find another one, because, let's face it, their backpacking days are done for awhile.
All of my girlfriends (save one) are mommies now. Particularly the close ones. All of my employees are parents (or stepparents, and in one case, a great grandparent).
If you're a member of the Mommy (or Daddy) Club, I say the following so that you at least understand where those of us in the Childless Club find ourselves.
Some of us are here because we want to be. Some of us are here because life dealt us a hand full of crappy cards. Some of us are here because our partners aren't inclined toward parenthood. Our reasons for membership are varied and plentiful. But we're here. And we often suffer quietly.
My husband and I aren't quite on the same page when it comes to having children. And most days, I'm okay with that. I know that having a child would change our lifestyle (not that we're the hard-partying type)... though I would be okay with that, too, as it doesn't mean changing for the bad... things would just be different. But some things I enjoy now would have to change if there were children in the picture (don't tell me that's not true, because it is. It would change).
But when the baby bombs go off; when I find the membership in my clubhouse dwindling, I get a little sad. When I see the looks between mother and child, or father and child, when our friends' children are born, I get very sad.
Please know that we are very happy for you when your child arrives, punching your ticket for membership into the other clubs. But please know that we are very sad that you are leaving our club, and that we can't go with you. And often, that means we have to wear a mask over our pain. If we don't linger, if we don't hold the baby, if we quietly slip away from a conversation... this is why.
I love her dearly, and I am incredibly happy for her. Her daughter is painfully lovely and perfect and serene.
But my Clubhouse is now empty. None of my close girl friends (I just don't make that many) are here anymore. Heck, most of the guys aren't here anymore either. They've joined the Daddy Club.
So I'm going to wallow in selfishness for a minute or two.
That's three hiking buddies (or potential hiking buddies) I've lost to the clubs for parents:
• First - my cousin, who is like a sister to me. We camped so much together, she was supposed to go backpacking with me one summer... and then she got pregnant.
• Second - a male friend's girlfriend (now wife). About the time I'd planned on asking her to hike with me... she got pregnant.
• Third - my best friend, who did go backpacking with me. And well, she got pregnant, too.
So now I have to find another one, because, let's face it, their backpacking days are done for awhile.
All of my girlfriends (save one) are mommies now. Particularly the close ones. All of my employees are parents (or stepparents, and in one case, a great grandparent).
If you're a member of the Mommy (or Daddy) Club, I say the following so that you at least understand where those of us in the Childless Club find ourselves.
Some of us are here because we want to be. Some of us are here because life dealt us a hand full of crappy cards. Some of us are here because our partners aren't inclined toward parenthood. Our reasons for membership are varied and plentiful. But we're here. And we often suffer quietly.
My husband and I aren't quite on the same page when it comes to having children. And most days, I'm okay with that. I know that having a child would change our lifestyle (not that we're the hard-partying type)... though I would be okay with that, too, as it doesn't mean changing for the bad... things would just be different. But some things I enjoy now would have to change if there were children in the picture (don't tell me that's not true, because it is. It would change).
But when the baby bombs go off; when I find the membership in my clubhouse dwindling, I get a little sad. When I see the looks between mother and child, or father and child, when our friends' children are born, I get very sad.
Please know that we are very happy for you when your child arrives, punching your ticket for membership into the other clubs. But please know that we are very sad that you are leaving our club, and that we can't go with you. And often, that means we have to wear a mask over our pain. If we don't linger, if we don't hold the baby, if we quietly slip away from a conversation... this is why.
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