take my kids… please!

A woman I went to high school with was visiting from out of town this weekend,  and we got together for lunch.   We were never really good friends back in the day, but through the magic of Facebook we have gotten to know each other as adults.  Sort of… as much as you can “get to know” someone through their Facebook page.   We’ll call her Betty for the purposes of me being able to trash her a bit later on.

One of the things that drew me to interactions with Betty is that she has two ridiculously beautiful children whose photos I am always commenting on.   She has a seven year old son,  and a two year old little girl with the kind of cheeks that just need to be pinched off and eaten.   Her family really is gorgeous… like, “why aren’t your kids in commercials” gorgeous.  I made a habit of telling her this as often as possible,  because I know it must be easy to take things like that for granted, and I thought it might be an ego boost to hear what miraculously adorable little lives she had created.   But when I do say something to her like “Betty, that little girl is so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes,”   she responds with something like “Oh, you wouldn’t be saying that if you had one of your own.  They’re not as cute once you know what they are really like.”

Ummm… you’re welcome?

The first time we had an exchange like this I sent her a private message mentioning how much I really did want kids but was struggling,  and that her family inspired me.   It was a version of what has become my standard manifesto that I have to send or recite when someone says the wrong thing about babies to me.   It was meant to elicit something like an apology,  understanding,  or at least backing down off of the whole “kids suck” propaganda she was pushing at me.   But no,  she still insisted that all I needed to do was spend an hour alone with her “little monsters”  and I would be… (here it comes)… “CURED”  of my desire to have a child.

Fast forward to this past weekend where I was informed that she and her family would be in town and they wanted to get together with me and Husband.   These kids had gone from three hours trapped in the back of an SUV to two hours trapped in a restuarant booth with strangers.  Naturally, they were whiny and restless.  Hell, so was I!   Every time one of them would get on her nerves or squeal or fuss she would look at me and say “See what I mean?  Are you sure you want to deal with this?”   (I was thinking, “What– you  or the kids?”)  Rather than responding directly to her I would say to the little ones, “This is boring, huh?  We should probably get you to a park to run around! You wanna run around for a while?  Cuz I sure do!”   “Yaaaay!”  

She even went as far as to say to Husband “I promise you these kids are going to get her over her baby cravings by the end of this meal, just watch.”  It was exhausting.  I kept reminding her that I in fact work at a daycare with a hundred kids much more active and wild than her two angels so she was welcome to cut that shit out,  but she wouldn’t hear it.  She wouldn’t hear me.

It never stopped.   I wondered if maybe she considered it some bizarre act of kindness.   It’s not like she really doesn’t like her babies.  She posts adoring, snuggly, soft-focus pictures of them about every 15 minutes on her Facebook page.  This is not an “I feel bad for those kids” situation.   They are clearly loved and cared for.   Betty is happy.  The family is happy.   So what was this obnoxious act?  Was she playing it down for me?   Did she think it would make it easier on me to think that motherhood sucked?  Did she think I might fall apart or lash out in a jealous rage if she actually acknowledged how lucky she was or accepted a single compliment I gave her children?   I guess I don’t really care enough to find out.  If I considered her a friend and not just some chick I vaguely remember from high school I might call her on it.   I might tell her she is making herself sound incredibly self-centered and thankless.   I might tell her that her little display was like pretending to hate your food in front of someone who is starving:  It won’t make them like the idea of food any less,  it will just make them like YOU less, you ungrateful ass!

It was loud in the restaurant and Betty wasn’t going to be a good listener anyway or maybe I would have tried to “educate” her more about her idiotic behavior.   I elected instead to eat my lunch as quick as possible and get the hell outta there.    Check , please!

“So? How’s the babymaking coming along?”

I’m new enough in the Austin area that I have to remind myself to make an effort to bond with people and actually go out sometimes.  Otherwise,  all my energy is focused on Husband and that isn’t fair to either one of us.   For example, this past month I took Clomid for the first time.  I don’t know if any of you have experienced the joy of  clomiphene citrate before, but one of the effects it had on me was that I became even more of a crybaby than I already am.   Dog food commercials,  checking the mailbox,  Husband looking at me for too long or not looking at me long enough… all these things sent me running for snot-rags and ice cream.

It was a hard time for both of us.  He’s a computer engineer, and he needs to try to fix things when they aren’t operating properly.    When a man tries to ‘repair’ you while you are mid-meltdown, it only makes things worse.   We don’t always want to be fixed,  sometimes we just need to be validated and given space to melt for a while.   Our partners can’t always figure this out,  but a friend can.

In my experience, the balance of energy gets thrown off when I expect Husband to be everything to me all the time.  I’ve been trying to remember to use my friends,  but the problem with that is that most of my closest friends are half way across the country and I never really made an effort to rebuild my circle after I moved here.  I’m making that effort now,  and I’ve noticed that it is tricky deciding what I will or won’t talk about over dinner with someone new.

The other night I went out with the wife of a friend of Husband whom I had chatted with via Facebook, but never really had any actual face time with.   It was her birthday the next day and she happens to be going through a divorce  so there was plenty to talk about other than my reproductive system, which was nice.   One of the many benefits of  hanging out with different kinds of people and their different kinds of problems is that it gets you out of your own head for a while.  All that anxiety and worrying about ourselves gets boring and gross,   like wallowing in dirty bathwater.   Sometimes you just need to get out and dry off.   It is within the isolation of keeping to yourself that depression can fester and spread.   So it was refreshing and healthy and good that I could be away from my home and even Husband for a while and think about somebody else’s problems and hopes and dreams.   I loved the feeling, and it was making me love her.

Then it happened.   The shift in conversation that always comes up when I’m chatting with someone new:    “Soooooo?  How’s the babymaking coming along?”

*GROAN*

My stock answer:  “Well, you know,” (uncomfortable chuckle) “we’re working on it!”    This is never a satisfactory reply.   Even though they are clearly asking me the most personal thing you can ask anyone (basically: “What’s happening up your vagina?”)  people feel bizarrely entitled to the details.

“What’s going on with that?”  she asked.

“What’s ‘going on‘ with it?”  I repeated.  Sometimes when somebody asks me what I think is a stupid or rude question I repeat it at them, giving them a chance to hear it back and decide if they want to retract it.  She did not.

“Yeah, like,  what are you guys doing?”

“What are we doing?”  I mirrored again,  the smart-ass in me begging to be released.   She nodded sweetly with a smile.  “Well, we fuck a lot, if that’s what you wanted to know… cuz… I hear that’s how it’s done.”

This should have shut down the conversation but it didn’t.  She laughed.  I’m known to be kind of a goofball, so surely I must have been being goofy.  She pried a bit more, saying she knew we were having a hard time and blah blah blah.  This is where I had to make a choice:  I could continue to be an asshole about it and deflect all her questions (It is my uterus after all,  so screw you if I don’t feel like giving you a tour);  OR I could be open with this sweet lady I was trying to bond with who just spent half an hour telling me about trying to get her alcoholic husband to sign the papers and get out of her life.  She was able to share her dirty laundry with me with a smile on her face and light all around her.   She wasn’t grumbling or dark, she was just talking about her life.   What was I so scared of?  Why couldn’t I do that, too?

I softened a bit and offered some vague insight.  “Well,  we have been trying for over three years now, and I have been checked out… so has he.   They keep saying everything looks good to go, but nothing is happening.  It’s pretty heartbreaking sometimes…”   She nodded and grinned like she understood exactly what to say.   That is NEVER a good sign.

“Oh, it’s just not your time yet.  That’s all.  You just need to stop thinking about it for a while and that baby will come to you when it’s ready.”

I felt myself wanting to get impatient and rude again,  but instead I tried to illustrate what it’s like to hear things like that.  I felt the floodgates open and I gave her details I normally wouldn’t have shared over enchiladas,  like what fibroids are and what they look like up close after you have them removed.  I told her what it was like being told I should have a hysterectomy and would never have kids at all.   I told her about the journey recovering from all that crap, and how it was a major challenge.  I told her it was not something I could just wish away or I’d be pregnant by now.  I told her that infertility was a real medical condition that I was working on having treated, and not just some negative way of looking at things.   I told her these things until I was tearing up.  I realized that my voice had gotten louder as I talked,  so suddenly the thing I was originally trying not to share with the person across from me had been shared with half the restaurant.   (“Check, please!”)

I had opened up,  and I wanted her to get it.  I certainly didn’t want pity,  but I also didn’t want to be told it was no big deal.  I wanted her to say something similar to what I said after she had described her drawn out divorce situation to me:  “Wow.   I don’t know how I would handle that… probably not as gracefully as you seem to be.”    No one ever says that, ever.  Not unless they have been through it, too.  And that is why I am here sharing with all of you…  but that is what I desperately needed to hear in that moment.

Here’s what I got instead:  “Well, I had my kids really easy… so if you ever need a surrogate,  I would totally carry for you!”

Ouch.

I didn’t want to be mad at my new friend.  She didn’t know.   I wanted to finish my margarita and laugh about something silly and be able to have girlfriends.   I wanted to get through a conversation with a new person without having to show them around my internal organs.  I wanted to go home and blog to you guys and feel like a little bit less of a freak.

Cheers, new friends!