Lately, I've been thinking a lot about rage.
I've finished my first year as an honest-to-goodness professor, and S. is doing a lot better. Not perfect by any means, but better. Between effective meds, our wonderful new dog, and some much-needed validation and vindication, she's much much closer to the woman she was before we lost our sons. I'm spending a lot less time and energy taking care of her as a result. Don't need to worry about her as much, or drag her out of bed, or wonder if today's the day I'm going to find her body.
So it's summer, and I've got room to move, room to breathe, room to think.
And I'm thinking about rage. About anger.
Anymore, I cannot stand depictions of motherhood in the media. At all. I talk back to the TV, and say cruel, hurtful things about Kate Gosselin, about the proliferation of large-family or parent-of-multiple shows. I'm sick of children, sick of people talking about their children, sick of pregnancy, sick of all of it. I have so much anger and frustration inside of me at having this wonderful thing withheld. I have so much in my life. I have so much. I have a wonderful wife and a healthy marriage. I have, for the first time in my life, however delayed, a career. I go to work and do what I love. But I don't have children, and may never have children. And I can study it, intellectualize it, I can examine it and talk about it in therapy, but at the end of the day is the truth of it. The hate that comes out of my mouth and out of my heart for the blithe simplicity of pregnancy. The smug assurance that it's "all worth it." The assumption that all it takes to have kids is to want kids. The privilege of it, the entitlement of it. It offends a sense of justice that by all rights I shouldn't still have. I have so little tolerance for it, for parenthood as a replacement for adult identity. For parenthood as a replacement for all other achievement. For the very real possibility that I will never, ever have children and the blank stares and hollow platitudes offered to me.
I am just now at a point in my life where I have space to take care of me, to think of me and my own needs. I have voices to listen to besides those of my wife. I have my own voices to listen to.
And they are all screaming with rage and hate for what was not meant to be.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Back (in black)
It's been a rough few months.
My absence from this blog was about 40% deliberate. Like many of you, sometimes I need a vacation from dead baby land. I haven't been writing, I haven't been reading. So much grief, both for me and for others. Compassion fatigue. I can only give so much. It's important, but caring takes energy, effort, and lately I've been very tired.
The other 60% have been the reasons I've been so tired.
Part of it has been my new job. I love what I do, and it's such a revelation for me to wake up and not even think of it as "going to work." I don't love every part of it, and I don't love it every day, but I love what I do. But it takes a lot of time and energy. I was responsible for almost 170 kids across three classes, and this was the first time I've had this large a teaching load. Not a lot of time left in the day after that. I spent about a week out of school sick with a cold that turned into serious ear and sinus infections. I spent the rest of the semester playing catch-up. Not much left of my brain by the end of the day.
The rest? Well, if you follow my wife's blog, you'll know that she's been having a very hard time over the last few months. And honestly? I've never seen her so depressed in all of the years we've been together, including the time following the death of her mother from cancer. Helpless, mired in grief. Paralyzed by anxiety and self-doubt. In tears, constantly. Wracked with sobs and pain. I'll be honest. There were days that I wondered if I would come home and find her body.
Nothing I could really say to anyone else about it, and even with her in therapy, I had to get her out of bed, get her to shower occasionally, remind her that it wouldn't always feel this way, that there was a strong, smart, compassionate, kind woman under the grief and pain. It was tiring, so tiring. I was exhausted. So much on my shoulders, no time or strength to talk about it outside of my own therapy. It was all so big, and so important. I had to carry it. I had to be strong. Not much time left for myself at the end of it all. Nothing left to give to anyone else.
Fortunately, things are getting better. S. got her meds adjusted, is in therapy twice a week and consulting with a psychiatrist, and our beautiful, beautiful new dog is a source of joy and love and happiness. She gets us out of bed, gets us outside, reminds us of the presence of things that are good and pure and sweet. S. is doing better. Not cured, not even close, but no longer at the bottom of a deep, dark hole. I'm on vacation now, in many senses of the word.
We got up late yesterday. I was mostly exhausted after spending the last week grading final exams and papers. We ran to the market to get food, and I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening making chili. In our house, food is love. When S. and I first started dating, I would make her dinner on the weekends. It was my way of courting her. For me, cooking is comforting. It's a soothing ritual - the preparation of ingredients, the timing of different things. I put on the radio or some music, have a beer or two, chop vegetables, cook meat, add seasonings, stir. It's a wonderful feeling - just me and the ingredients and knives and heat. A world of my own. A way to meditate, almost. And at the end of it, something delicious, something tangible.
And so today, a day which proved so horrible and terrifying last year, we sit in our living room, something familiar on television, surrounded by sweet animals, and the sweet, spicy smell of the chili I made yesterday reheating in the kitchen. It's one of those dishes that's always better the next day.
My absence from this blog was about 40% deliberate. Like many of you, sometimes I need a vacation from dead baby land. I haven't been writing, I haven't been reading. So much grief, both for me and for others. Compassion fatigue. I can only give so much. It's important, but caring takes energy, effort, and lately I've been very tired.
The other 60% have been the reasons I've been so tired.
Part of it has been my new job. I love what I do, and it's such a revelation for me to wake up and not even think of it as "going to work." I don't love every part of it, and I don't love it every day, but I love what I do. But it takes a lot of time and energy. I was responsible for almost 170 kids across three classes, and this was the first time I've had this large a teaching load. Not a lot of time left in the day after that. I spent about a week out of school sick with a cold that turned into serious ear and sinus infections. I spent the rest of the semester playing catch-up. Not much left of my brain by the end of the day.
The rest? Well, if you follow my wife's blog, you'll know that she's been having a very hard time over the last few months. And honestly? I've never seen her so depressed in all of the years we've been together, including the time following the death of her mother from cancer. Helpless, mired in grief. Paralyzed by anxiety and self-doubt. In tears, constantly. Wracked with sobs and pain. I'll be honest. There were days that I wondered if I would come home and find her body.
Nothing I could really say to anyone else about it, and even with her in therapy, I had to get her out of bed, get her to shower occasionally, remind her that it wouldn't always feel this way, that there was a strong, smart, compassionate, kind woman under the grief and pain. It was tiring, so tiring. I was exhausted. So much on my shoulders, no time or strength to talk about it outside of my own therapy. It was all so big, and so important. I had to carry it. I had to be strong. Not much time left for myself at the end of it all. Nothing left to give to anyone else.
Fortunately, things are getting better. S. got her meds adjusted, is in therapy twice a week and consulting with a psychiatrist, and our beautiful, beautiful new dog is a source of joy and love and happiness. She gets us out of bed, gets us outside, reminds us of the presence of things that are good and pure and sweet. S. is doing better. Not cured, not even close, but no longer at the bottom of a deep, dark hole. I'm on vacation now, in many senses of the word.
We got up late yesterday. I was mostly exhausted after spending the last week grading final exams and papers. We ran to the market to get food, and I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening making chili. In our house, food is love. When S. and I first started dating, I would make her dinner on the weekends. It was my way of courting her. For me, cooking is comforting. It's a soothing ritual - the preparation of ingredients, the timing of different things. I put on the radio or some music, have a beer or two, chop vegetables, cook meat, add seasonings, stir. It's a wonderful feeling - just me and the ingredients and knives and heat. A world of my own. A way to meditate, almost. And at the end of it, something delicious, something tangible.
And so today, a day which proved so horrible and terrifying last year, we sit in our living room, something familiar on television, surrounded by sweet animals, and the sweet, spicy smell of the chili I made yesterday reheating in the kitchen. It's one of those dishes that's always better the next day.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Arrghhh. Kids today.
So I get this email late last week. Well wait. Just to provide some context:
* If a class is full, or a student hasn't fulfilled all of the prerequisites for a class, or if the registration dates for the class have passed, then the only way a student may enroll in a class is to fill out what's called a force-add slip, which authorizes the registrar to add students above the maximum enrollment, past the regular registration range, or who wouldn't otherwise qualify.
* These force-adds are authorized entirely at the discretion of the instructor. I don't have to let anyone into my classes who puts me over my cap, who is coming into the class late, or who hasn't met the prerequisites. Doing this is a favor. You ask a professor if they would be nice enough to do this.
* I got this email late last week. On the 19th, to be precise.
* Classes started on August 25th.
That said, I now present the email in its entirety. Names have been changed for the obvious reasons.
----------
Subject: Signature
From: "SUZY SNOWFLAKE" (EMAIL REDACTED)
Date: Fri, 19 Sep 2008 00:00:10 -0400
To:"CDE" (EMAIL REDACTED)
This is SUZY SNOWFLAKE. I need to change my Introduction to Psychology time and need you to sign a Change of Schedule form to enter your class. I was wondering if there was any possibility to see you about ten or fifteen minutes prior to your Child Development class tomorrow so you can sign the form.
Thanks,
SUZY
----------
We're a month into the semester and you just now want to add my class? You "need" to change your time? Well, I "need" a wet bar in my office and both fog and lasers to herald my entrance into the classroom. Looks like we're both being grossly unrealistic and are both shit out of luck.
I think what gets me the most is the "I need you to do this for me", as if I'm a salesperson at Abercrombie or something. No, see, it works like this: If you're nice, polite, and recognize that you're asking me to go above and beyond, you have a shot. Just a shot. If you approach me like the help and tell me "chop-chop, I have places to be", you get nothing.
I have heard stories from my colleagues about the ridiculous sense of entitlement that seems to distinguish the current generation of college students, but this is one of the few times I've run into it directly. I had a student challenge a grade I gave her once, on the grounds that she didn't think the material on which I was testing her was important. A colleague of mine had a student approach her after class on the first day and tell her that he was going to need for her to "sell him on why he should take this class". She, of course, looked at him like a new and particularly odious species of insect. Just last week, another student requested that one of my colleagues give her a make-up exam next month because, like, she just booked a flight home the day of the exam.
Entitlement.
Some times we run into this wall, where we find out that we can't have everything we want when we want it, no matter how much we think we deserve it.
I told the student no, that we were a month into classes, the first exam was in three days, and there was no way for her to catch up.
I've become very familiar with "no."
* If a class is full, or a student hasn't fulfilled all of the prerequisites for a class, or if the registration dates for the class have passed, then the only way a student may enroll in a class is to fill out what's called a force-add slip, which authorizes the registrar to add students above the maximum enrollment, past the regular registration range, or who wouldn't otherwise qualify.
* These force-adds are authorized entirely at the discretion of the instructor. I don't have to let anyone into my classes who puts me over my cap, who is coming into the class late, or who hasn't met the prerequisites. Doing this is a favor. You ask a professor if they would be nice enough to do this.
* I got this email late last week. On the 19th, to be precise.
* Classes started on August 25th.
That said, I now present the email in its entirety. Names have been changed for the obvious reasons.
----------
Subject: Signature
From: "SUZY SNOWFLAKE" (EMAIL REDACTED)
Date: Fri, 19 Sep 2008 00:00:10 -0400
To:"CDE" (EMAIL REDACTED)
This is SUZY SNOWFLAKE. I need to change my Introduction to Psychology time and need you to sign a Change of Schedule form to enter your class. I was wondering if there was any possibility to see you about ten or fifteen minutes prior to your Child Development class tomorrow so you can sign the form.
Thanks,
SUZY
----------
We're a month into the semester and you just now want to add my class? You "need" to change your time? Well, I "need" a wet bar in my office and both fog and lasers to herald my entrance into the classroom. Looks like we're both being grossly unrealistic and are both shit out of luck.
I think what gets me the most is the "I need you to do this for me", as if I'm a salesperson at Abercrombie or something. No, see, it works like this: If you're nice, polite, and recognize that you're asking me to go above and beyond, you have a shot. Just a shot. If you approach me like the help and tell me "chop-chop, I have places to be", you get nothing.
I have heard stories from my colleagues about the ridiculous sense of entitlement that seems to distinguish the current generation of college students, but this is one of the few times I've run into it directly. I had a student challenge a grade I gave her once, on the grounds that she didn't think the material on which I was testing her was important. A colleague of mine had a student approach her after class on the first day and tell her that he was going to need for her to "sell him on why he should take this class". She, of course, looked at him like a new and particularly odious species of insect. Just last week, another student requested that one of my colleagues give her a make-up exam next month because, like, she just booked a flight home the day of the exam.
Entitlement.
Some times we run into this wall, where we find out that we can't have everything we want when we want it, no matter how much we think we deserve it.
I told the student no, that we were a month into classes, the first exam was in three days, and there was no way for her to catch up.
I've become very familiar with "no."
Wait for it...not just yet...
I've finally reached that point in the child development class that I'm teaching where I've gotten to talk about fun things like infertility, birth complications, stillbirth, etc. Normally when I prepare the lectures for this class, I follow the book pretty closely, mostly because this is a class outside of my area of specialization. I did notice, however, that when I wrote the section on infertility and fertility treatments for one lecture, I barely consulted the book at all. I'm still not sure if half of what I talked about is actually in there in any great detail.
I've been going back and forth on whether or not I want to mention my own experience in this class, and having gone into as much detail as I have about things like hyperemesis, IUI, what viability exactly means at 24 weeks, all of that, I almost feel like I have to. I've just been afraid it'll be gratuitous or self-involved (some people refer to "the wonder of me" syndrome in academia), but at the end of the day, I feel like personal examples can have the most impact. It's one thing to tell people something can happen, it's another to walk them through exactly what that means. Plus, most of the time I feel like I have enough distance on it that I can talk about it pretty matter-of-factly. I'm not one for messy public breakdowns.
But I'd prepared myself to do exactly that today, share my story as a way to cap off the bit on chemical pregnancy, miscarriage, and stillbirth. But I ran out of time, even ran a little over. A scream deferred, if I want to be cutesy about it. And now I wonder - do I bring it up next class, or let it sit there, waiting inside my head?
I've been going back and forth on whether or not I want to mention my own experience in this class, and having gone into as much detail as I have about things like hyperemesis, IUI, what viability exactly means at 24 weeks, all of that, I almost feel like I have to. I've just been afraid it'll be gratuitous or self-involved (some people refer to "the wonder of me" syndrome in academia), but at the end of the day, I feel like personal examples can have the most impact. It's one thing to tell people something can happen, it's another to walk them through exactly what that means. Plus, most of the time I feel like I have enough distance on it that I can talk about it pretty matter-of-factly. I'm not one for messy public breakdowns.
But I'd prepared myself to do exactly that today, share my story as a way to cap off the bit on chemical pregnancy, miscarriage, and stillbirth. But I ran out of time, even ran a little over. A scream deferred, if I want to be cutesy about it. And now I wonder - do I bring it up next class, or let it sit there, waiting inside my head?
Monday, September 8, 2008
Like shouting from the bottom of a well
I want to strangle my computer today.
I just need to write a quiz. A 20-minute quiz to give to about 125 students. A class which is less a class and more a huge organism over which I exert control, rather than teach. I just want to write a quiz for them, and the software I use to write tests finally has to be uninstalled and reinstalled after a complete shutdown of my office computer. I am dreading installing Service Pack 3.
Ah, the joys of the new faculty member.
Weird flashback moment: I go to the doctor this morning for a follow-up appointment to see how I'm doing on the happy pills he prescribed to me almost a year ago. Last time he saw me was October. I don't think he knows we lost the boys, unless S. told him, because she goes to him too. Actually, when we lost the boys, I'd forgotten to refill my prescription, so I went through everything without being on my meds. I'm not sure what it says that I didn't really notice at the time. So I'm sitting in his office waiting for him, and all of a sudden, all of the trappings of the medical office get to me - the sharps containers, the swabs, the gauze pads, the exam table - all of a sudden I'm right back on hospital time, right back at the place where we delivered the boys. Just for a minute or so, and then it's gone. Doctor comes in, and we're talking about how long I've been on my happy pills, and he suggests that we hold off talking about weaning off until after the winter months, what with how the season affects us emotionally and all. I think about the 1-year anniversary coming up in December, and fuck no, I want to be all kinds of medicated when that shit comes down.
We went to a reception at my chair's house the other night for staff and faculty, and I was surprised at the number of babies there, playing. Talk of children and buying houses. Any money we could save toward a house is going to hospitals for letting us lose our sons there. We have to leave early. We don't even say goodbyes, we just duck out. It's the beginning of graduate school all over again - I don't have much in common with these people, either.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I just need to write a quiz. A 20-minute quiz to give to about 125 students. A class which is less a class and more a huge organism over which I exert control, rather than teach. I just want to write a quiz for them, and the software I use to write tests finally has to be uninstalled and reinstalled after a complete shutdown of my office computer. I am dreading installing Service Pack 3.
Ah, the joys of the new faculty member.
Weird flashback moment: I go to the doctor this morning for a follow-up appointment to see how I'm doing on the happy pills he prescribed to me almost a year ago. Last time he saw me was October. I don't think he knows we lost the boys, unless S. told him, because she goes to him too. Actually, when we lost the boys, I'd forgotten to refill my prescription, so I went through everything without being on my meds. I'm not sure what it says that I didn't really notice at the time. So I'm sitting in his office waiting for him, and all of a sudden, all of the trappings of the medical office get to me - the sharps containers, the swabs, the gauze pads, the exam table - all of a sudden I'm right back on hospital time, right back at the place where we delivered the boys. Just for a minute or so, and then it's gone. Doctor comes in, and we're talking about how long I've been on my happy pills, and he suggests that we hold off talking about weaning off until after the winter months, what with how the season affects us emotionally and all. I think about the 1-year anniversary coming up in December, and fuck no, I want to be all kinds of medicated when that shit comes down.
We went to a reception at my chair's house the other night for staff and faculty, and I was surprised at the number of babies there, playing. Talk of children and buying houses. Any money we could save toward a house is going to hospitals for letting us lose our sons there. We have to leave early. We don't even say goodbyes, we just duck out. It's the beginning of graduate school all over again - I don't have much in common with these people, either.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Monday, August 25, 2008
School is back in...with a vengeance.
The great thing about the summer was that for the most part I didn't have to deal with stuff with which I didn't want to deal. What this ended up being was less a vacation or quiet period and more being lulled into a false sense of security.
Our department had a reception for all of the graduates (which, woo-hoo! I is a professor now!) on Friday night, and although I knew children would be there in abstract (because family was invited), it didn't really hit me until I got there, with lots of kids running around everywhere. One student has something like 4 or 5 kids, which makes me wonder when he ever had time to actually write his dissertation. But, well, you know. Babies everywhere. None of them mine. No children to introduce when asked to introduce my guests. Someone called their children their "greatest accomplishment", and it rankled. Someone else referred to their grandson, Jacob. That was a knife twisting in my gut. No Jacob for me. No Joshua for me. No boys for me, and the joy of this day dulled by the tragedy preceding it.
And then our friend had her daughter. She's, like, 10 pounds. She's a monster. We want to go over there and celebrate, but seeing them as new parents again seems like it's going to hurt. It's weird, being suspended in this place between joy and grief - I am happy for them, I want to celebrate, but can't. The same way that I knew the three bourbons I had at the bar the Saturday after commencement would hurt the next day unless I took precautions. We have to take precautions around people.
Anymore I'm okay, most of the time. Not always. But I got picked on a lot as a kid. Beaten up. Teased. Bullied. I learned pretty early on how to shove things to the back of my mind, keep going forward, never let them see you cry. My avoidance of all things child and baby-related has become routine. But every now and then, something surfaces. These days it's pretty much an impatience with the children of strangers in public places and the creation of a pretty terrifying soccer-mom strawman in my head. How much of this is knowing that I'll be teaching their children someday, I dunno.
It all feels like a product of being trapped between two places - I'm doing really well professionally, but I can't have kids. I want to be happy and enjoy this, but S is still pretty down, and although I want her to come along with me on trying to enjoy what we have instead of mourning what we don't sometimes, I know it won't be that easy for her. I want to celebrate and enjoy the children of people I know, but I can feel the agony waiting in the wings. It was bad enough being trapped between in all of that time we spent in hospital limbo. I want it to be over already so I can have the rest of my life back.
Our department had a reception for all of the graduates (which, woo-hoo! I is a professor now!) on Friday night, and although I knew children would be there in abstract (because family was invited), it didn't really hit me until I got there, with lots of kids running around everywhere. One student has something like 4 or 5 kids, which makes me wonder when he ever had time to actually write his dissertation. But, well, you know. Babies everywhere. None of them mine. No children to introduce when asked to introduce my guests. Someone called their children their "greatest accomplishment", and it rankled. Someone else referred to their grandson, Jacob. That was a knife twisting in my gut. No Jacob for me. No Joshua for me. No boys for me, and the joy of this day dulled by the tragedy preceding it.
And then our friend had her daughter. She's, like, 10 pounds. She's a monster. We want to go over there and celebrate, but seeing them as new parents again seems like it's going to hurt. It's weird, being suspended in this place between joy and grief - I am happy for them, I want to celebrate, but can't. The same way that I knew the three bourbons I had at the bar the Saturday after commencement would hurt the next day unless I took precautions. We have to take precautions around people.
Anymore I'm okay, most of the time. Not always. But I got picked on a lot as a kid. Beaten up. Teased. Bullied. I learned pretty early on how to shove things to the back of my mind, keep going forward, never let them see you cry. My avoidance of all things child and baby-related has become routine. But every now and then, something surfaces. These days it's pretty much an impatience with the children of strangers in public places and the creation of a pretty terrifying soccer-mom strawman in my head. How much of this is knowing that I'll be teaching their children someday, I dunno.
It all feels like a product of being trapped between two places - I'm doing really well professionally, but I can't have kids. I want to be happy and enjoy this, but S is still pretty down, and although I want her to come along with me on trying to enjoy what we have instead of mourning what we don't sometimes, I know it won't be that easy for her. I want to celebrate and enjoy the children of people I know, but I can feel the agony waiting in the wings. It was bad enough being trapped between in all of that time we spent in hospital limbo. I want it to be over already so I can have the rest of my life back.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Not so slight return.
Goddamnit, I just can't get clear of this whole fucking grieving thing.
The six-month anniversary of the boys' death hit me about as hard as it hit S., but I didn't really pay attention to it because it hit me in a different way. I never really experienced outpourings of grief or bolt-from-the-blue surges of emotion. Everything just got turned down to a dull roar, both the good and the bad. I couldn't get up from the couch. I wanted to write, to communicate with people, to reconnect, but all I could do was sit and stare. And sit. And stare. The six-month anniversary snuck up behind me and clocked me over the head when I wasn't looking. And the babies, oh, the proliferation of babies everywhere I fucking looked.
We attended S.'s brother's wedding. Oh, Christ. Nightmare from go. I attribute my ability to get through the whole thing to a combination of perversity (the more chaotic my in-laws get, the calmer I get), allergy medicine that knocked me off my ass, and liberal applications of vodka. And all the talk of babies, all the "be fruitful and multiply" start-a-family shit, all the "time to start giving us grandkids/cousins" shit. BABIES EVERYWHERE. Fuck it, maybe that should just be the title of this blog. A couple of people extended their regrets, but one of them went on to talk about how the "right" people were rarely fertile, and another followed his regrets with pictures of the grandkids, for fuck's sake.
And then I come back and plant myself on the couch. Things to do, but I can't make myself do them.
And if that's not enough - here comes my 20th high school reunion. Now, there' s no chance in hell that I'm going to go. Flat-out. Don't have the time or the inclination. But there's a website, and I'm curious to see what's happened to who. One thing in common? BABIES. Lots and lots of babies. Between two and four (or, for fuck's sake, FIVE) for each person. What do I have to offer? Tragedy. I guess it'll have to be enough that I married, because reproduction seems like it's right off the menu. Considering what I was like in high school, the marriage bit will probably be enough of a surprise. Even more of a surprise that I married a woman.
It spikes up every now and then, in a way that it didn't before. Maybe I was just in shock, but I find myself thinking "I should have at least one little boy asleep on my chest right now", or "that should be me carrying the little boy or pushing the stroller." But I'm not. It's not me, and given how hard we worked to get this far, I honestly wonder if it'll ever be. It may not be in the cards, no fooling myself, no more optimism. It's like the smoke is clearing, and I'm seeing just how fucking big the crater really is.
The six-month anniversary of the boys' death hit me about as hard as it hit S., but I didn't really pay attention to it because it hit me in a different way. I never really experienced outpourings of grief or bolt-from-the-blue surges of emotion. Everything just got turned down to a dull roar, both the good and the bad. I couldn't get up from the couch. I wanted to write, to communicate with people, to reconnect, but all I could do was sit and stare. And sit. And stare. The six-month anniversary snuck up behind me and clocked me over the head when I wasn't looking. And the babies, oh, the proliferation of babies everywhere I fucking looked.
We attended S.'s brother's wedding. Oh, Christ. Nightmare from go. I attribute my ability to get through the whole thing to a combination of perversity (the more chaotic my in-laws get, the calmer I get), allergy medicine that knocked me off my ass, and liberal applications of vodka. And all the talk of babies, all the "be fruitful and multiply" start-a-family shit, all the "time to start giving us grandkids/cousins" shit. BABIES EVERYWHERE. Fuck it, maybe that should just be the title of this blog. A couple of people extended their regrets, but one of them went on to talk about how the "right" people were rarely fertile, and another followed his regrets with pictures of the grandkids, for fuck's sake.
And then I come back and plant myself on the couch. Things to do, but I can't make myself do them.
And if that's not enough - here comes my 20th high school reunion. Now, there' s no chance in hell that I'm going to go. Flat-out. Don't have the time or the inclination. But there's a website, and I'm curious to see what's happened to who. One thing in common? BABIES. Lots and lots of babies. Between two and four (or, for fuck's sake, FIVE) for each person. What do I have to offer? Tragedy. I guess it'll have to be enough that I married, because reproduction seems like it's right off the menu. Considering what I was like in high school, the marriage bit will probably be enough of a surprise. Even more of a surprise that I married a woman.
It spikes up every now and then, in a way that it didn't before. Maybe I was just in shock, but I find myself thinking "I should have at least one little boy asleep on my chest right now", or "that should be me carrying the little boy or pushing the stroller." But I'm not. It's not me, and given how hard we worked to get this far, I honestly wonder if it'll ever be. It may not be in the cards, no fooling myself, no more optimism. It's like the smoke is clearing, and I'm seeing just how fucking big the crater really is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)