Category — Uncategorized

Carolyn Hax gets it.  Usually, that is.  I mean, the woman isn’t a robot.  She sometimes overlooks things, but on the whole, she gets it.  I loved her explanation of what it means to live childfree after infertility in a recent column.  I saved this until Thanksgiving was over because I didn’t want it to get buried in the holiday posts.

The situation was a same-sex couple: one wanted a child, the advice seeker didn’t.  They would clearly need assistance to conceive, so let’s try-but-not-try was out of the question.  They decided to not have a child, and the advice seeker stated: I see this as nothing more than sticking to our default state of childlessness, but my partner clearly thinks I have gotten my way and feels owed something in return.

Advice seeker wonders why getting a pet wasn’t a reasonable substitution.  Carolyn gently explained what the questioner couldn’t understand.

That they weren’t sticking a default state because her partner had been in a different state.  Yes, before and after were both without a child, but before — for the partner — included a future where she was a mother.  And after — for the partner — was a future where she was no longer a possible mother.  I often see people write that they didn’t lose anything, so they don’t know how to mourn, but Hax points that people DO lose something: they lose their future self.  No small loss.

Hax states:

Your decision lopped off your partner’s expected life path. You came to it mutually, yes, but in areas where there is no compromise, just either-or, even a mutual decision means one of you 100 percent gets your way. You did here. This is not just something your partner “thinks.”

But maybe the most important point of all:

You can’t provide a substitute for a child. You didn’t choose a different thing, you chose a different life.

That is IT.  There is no substitute, which is why there is no simple way to “get over it” or “move on.”  You need to mourn because there is nothing else that can fill a child-sized hole except a child.  That’s not to say you will forever feel a breeze blowing through you, but just that it’s an actual loss that needs to be recognized by others and mourned by the person/couple experiencing the loss.

And that concept that it impacts your life.  It changes your life path.  And that is no small thing, too.  It needs to be acknowledged.  Not pitied but acknowledged because we should recognize people’s life changing events.

Hax tells the question asker, your partner is grieving.  And with this simple statement, she opens the door to empathy.  To care.  To offering a kind word and a hug and not an opinion.

I got new glasses.  When I went in to choose the new frames, I started by looking at glasses that looked similar to my current glasses.  But the woman convinced me to go in a completely different direction, hinting that I may one day need bifocals and my current frame is too thin and small for progressives.

I am trying to get accustomed to them because (1) they’re a new prescription and (2) they’re a little uncomfortable still, but I think I like them?  I don’t know.

(I have really short arms, and I’m not very good at taking a selfie.  Plus my hair is in a messy bun.  I’m a mess.  That’s it.  I’m actually a mess.)

*******

I’m reading my first James Bond novel.  It’s my first experience with James Bond; meaning, I’ve never seen a James Bond film.  The only thing I know about the character is what I learned at the Spy Museum’s 007 exhibit.

I mentally grade every book I read.  If I grade a book an A or a B, I keep reading.  If I grade a book a D or an F, I stop.  C’s are in limbo; usually they either become a low B and I keep reading, or I decide they’re really a D and I stop.  But the entire concept of James Bond has stayed solidly in C territory for me, and I’m over 100 pages in.  This almost never happens.  I don’t like it enough to keep reading, AND I don’t hate it enough to stop.

So maybe I should have started this by saying, “I’m reading my first and maybe last James Bond novel.”

Do you like James Bond?  Why or why not?

Sometimes you see a word once, and then you see it again and again in various places.  Wabi-sabi is one of those words, and it seems like a perfect one to trot out today.  I’ve read a bit about it, and my understanding of the concept probably doesn’t do it justice.  But I’ll place it out there just in case it speaks to you the same way it speaks to me.

The concept centers on the idea of finding beauty in the “imperfect.”  Or, as Utne Reader explains:

Wabi-sabi reminds us that we are all transient beings on this planet—that our bodies, as well as the material world around us, are in the process of returning to dust. Nature’s cycles of growth, decay, and erosion are embodied in frayed edges, rust, liver spots. Through wabi-sabi, we learn to embrace both the glory and the melancholy found in these marks of passing time.

Thanksgiving is a way I mark time.  It’s not the holiday itself, but I’m usually with family, and it makes me fretful because I can see time passing.  The kids don’t look like they did five Thanksgivings ago.  The world feels different from it did ten Thanksgivings ago.  But I also love this day that makes me a little melancholy.  Hours spent with people I love, eating the side dishes and too much dessert.

That’s beautiful, too.

I hope you are having a great day doing whatever you do to celebrate (or not celebrate) Thanksgiving.

[Melissa stands up, taps her fork against her glass, and clears her throat. The conversation around the table dies down. She looks at everyone at the table.]

We do this every year: Come together as a community and have a virtual meal before we scatter to our actual meals. Unless, that is, you do not celebrate Thanksgiving. But I hope that you’ll join the table for virtual food and company even if you don’t follow this tradition offline.

We’ve virtually eaten together since 2009. That’s when this tradition began. There are some people hurting at this table. For some people, this pre-meal is what gets them through their real meal later in the week. People have written that they’ve printed out this yearly post and comments and left the paper in their purse because it helped to have a tangible reminder that there were people out there who got it. Who weren’t going to ask them when they were going to hurry up and have children. Who weren’t going to cringe when someone spoke the name of a child they lost.

We are all so different. All of us. Around this table. But we have this one facet of our lives — and yes, even though it may be a big, overpowering one for you right now, it is only one facet of who you are — where we overlap: infertility or adoption or loss. And I am so thankful, so grateful, that I found all of you. Everyone needs a You-shaped space where they can be themselves. And that’s what I have here.

So every year, I ask people to bring a virtual dish to our meal. Place it in the comment section, explaining what you brought and why. And say anything else you need to say before sitting back down to enjoy the company. Update about where you are; your emotional state.

We’re an international group, hailing from countries all around the world. So while Thanksgiving is an American tradition, I hope that everyone around the world feels as if they can participate. (Especially our Canadian neighbours who celebrated Thanksgiving weeks ago.) I’d love for your dish to come from your culture or country. Don’t worry about the contents on the table clashing.

I am bringing stuffing. It’s comfort food; mushy and soggy and warm.

So what did you bring and what do you want to say to the community?

And please, start eating as everyone is introducing their dish. We don’t want the food to get cold and there are so many of us at this table. Thank you so much for coming, and I’m going to carry the warmth of this meal with me for the rest of this week.

Yes, I needed to scream that title.

I didn’t know when the mail carrier handed me the little package that my heart was forever going to live outside my chest in book form.  People, I am in love with dwarsliggers.

My sister saw them at a bookstore and surprised me with the only John Green book I haven’t read: Looking for Alaska.

She sent it without letting me know, so I was completely shocked when I opened the package and found a tiny book inside.

It opens horizontally instead of vertically to fit more text on the page.

Which means it also fits more love inside my heart.

Because it is so cute.  And so awesome.  And my sister is the BEST.