What up, imaginary baby.
I'm sitting at the breakfast table, which in the last 36 hours has become coated in a thin layer of yellow pollen. You don't notice at first, until you actually put your hand on the table, and it comes up yellow. Such is the hallmark of spring in this tiny town in upstate New York, where I live on occasion.
If you ever want to confront how truly selfish and self-absorbed you can be, try throwing an afternoon party for all your friends who had babies since the last time you saw them, and do it while you're having your period after two years of total baby-having failure. You might discover that you are not as nice as you thought you were. Or would wish to be. Or something. Fortunately, you can fill your mouth with cake.
It might be a struggle to find things to say to these friends. After you exclaim over their babies hair/smallness/largeness/adorableness, they usually want to talk to you about epidurals. Epidurals are something I prefer not to talk about. In fact, they are something I prefer not to think about.
You might discover that you have nothing to talk about but your work. You can list your various accomplishments - this book is coming out now, and then that one is coming out later, and you're working on that other one - but they're bored, and so you gloss over it. You can't blame them. Babies are absorbing. And do they really want to hear about how you get to go to Paris for your book release? They surely do not. No one does. Even you find it kind of embarrassing to mention. Your privileges are many, but it's tacky to acknowledge them.
It's Mother's Day, and much will be made at your baby party of the people present who are mothers for the first time. You have spent much of the past two years caring for/nagging/supporting and otherwise mothering a teenager to whom you are related by marriage, but there is no such thing as Half-Sister-in-Law Day. You played Santa for your cousin's kids while their dad was deployed overseas, and they love you and you love them, but there's no First Cousin Once Removed Day, either. For women, motherhood is where it's at. Therein lies the value.
One of the attendees at your afternoon baby party might ask you in hushed tones if you're still trying, and you'll say yes, but it's been two years and no dice, not even a positive test. Not once. And she'll tell you about her friend who had to use both a donor egg and donor sperm, and she's due any day now.
You will find that discomfiting. Even vaguely eugenicist. Who would go to all that trouble and expense, when there are already extant children who desperately need a home? You reflect that you would become a foster parent before doing that.
Foster parenting actually seems like a pretty decent idea, if your mothering drive ever becomes intrusive. You could do some good in the world. It would probably be awful much of the time, but then, so is real parenting.
So here we are, at our polleny table, feeling disappointed in ourselves. We're not the women we thought we were, I guess. But that, of itself, is a big part of existing. Learning that what we think about ourselves isn't necessarily the truth.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Secret Recipe
I was standing in the kitchen of a friend's sublet apartment, attending a small book party. I was talking with my friend T, the guest of honor's wife.
T is one of the best people I know. She never seems shaken by anything, she is always positive, she is the only person on the planet who can wear a white tube top and look elegant while doing so instead of skanky, and she is beautiful. She has the kind of beauty that used to be found on tropical islands when they were colonial sugar strongholds. T is tan and blonde. She is also very, very fertile.
"Do you want my secret recipe?" She asked me. We were catching up, and between all the work news (all I have to talk about is work, imaginary baby, though I also talk a lot about your dog) I had mentioned that it was now two years into my halfhearted attempts to conjure you.
"Please!" I said. "Heck. Why not?"
She looked left. She looked right.
"Are you sure?" she whispered.
Were we being spied upon? We weren't. "Yes." I said, wondering if my friend was luring me into some kind of Faustian bargain that, because of her innate goodness (lies all this time?) I would never see coming. "Tell me."
"I can't," she said. "I'll write it down."
I blinked. "Okay," I said.
Before she left, she hunted down a pen and the back of an envelope. I looked over her shoulder with interest. "It took me six months," she said. "Which I realize is nothing! But nothing happened until I did this."
Here's what she wrote.
1. Vitamin D
2. Preseed
3. Fertility 5
"I had a Vitamin D deficiency," she explained. "But you can take supplements."
"Um," I said. "What does this mean?" I pointed to #3.
"Five pounds. You have to gain a little weight."
"Ah ha!" I crowed. You, imaginary baby, have been privy to this semester's pimiento cheese gain, so I'm all set there, I'm pretty sure. "I've done that. I'm squishy."
"K, come on," she said. "You look amazing."
By the way, imaginary baby, if you wind up existing, and you wind up being female, you should know this how women talk to each other. One self-deprecates, and one effusively praises. It takes practice, but you'll figure it out.
"Okay," I said. "And what's this mean?" I pointed to #2.
Poor T's face turned a delicate, ladylike shade of violet, and she waved her hands and said "Look it up on the internet." Then she hugged me goodbye, and we promised to see much more of each other this summer, and she whispered that she hoped I would have good news soon.
#2, if you care to know, is a brand of lube available at your finer local drugstores. I learned this by asking the internet, where the answer was provided on a series of bulletin boards in which people - women, I assume - use a complex rubric to discuss with strangers their marriages, their hormone levels, and how many miscarriages they've had.
I'm not so sure about #2. But I will admit to popping a Vitamin D supplement this morning.
You never know.
T is one of the best people I know. She never seems shaken by anything, she is always positive, she is the only person on the planet who can wear a white tube top and look elegant while doing so instead of skanky, and she is beautiful. She has the kind of beauty that used to be found on tropical islands when they were colonial sugar strongholds. T is tan and blonde. She is also very, very fertile.
"Do you want my secret recipe?" She asked me. We were catching up, and between all the work news (all I have to talk about is work, imaginary baby, though I also talk a lot about your dog) I had mentioned that it was now two years into my halfhearted attempts to conjure you.
"Please!" I said. "Heck. Why not?"
She looked left. She looked right.
"Are you sure?" she whispered.
Were we being spied upon? We weren't. "Yes." I said, wondering if my friend was luring me into some kind of Faustian bargain that, because of her innate goodness (lies all this time?) I would never see coming. "Tell me."
"I can't," she said. "I'll write it down."
I blinked. "Okay," I said.
Before she left, she hunted down a pen and the back of an envelope. I looked over her shoulder with interest. "It took me six months," she said. "Which I realize is nothing! But nothing happened until I did this."
Here's what she wrote.
1. Vitamin D
2. Preseed
3. Fertility 5
"I had a Vitamin D deficiency," she explained. "But you can take supplements."
"Um," I said. "What does this mean?" I pointed to #3.
"Five pounds. You have to gain a little weight."
"Ah ha!" I crowed. You, imaginary baby, have been privy to this semester's pimiento cheese gain, so I'm all set there, I'm pretty sure. "I've done that. I'm squishy."
"K, come on," she said. "You look amazing."
By the way, imaginary baby, if you wind up existing, and you wind up being female, you should know this how women talk to each other. One self-deprecates, and one effusively praises. It takes practice, but you'll figure it out.
"Okay," I said. "And what's this mean?" I pointed to #2.
Poor T's face turned a delicate, ladylike shade of violet, and she waved her hands and said "Look it up on the internet." Then she hugged me goodbye, and we promised to see much more of each other this summer, and she whispered that she hoped I would have good news soon.
#2, if you care to know, is a brand of lube available at your finer local drugstores. I learned this by asking the internet, where the answer was provided on a series of bulletin boards in which people - women, I assume - use a complex rubric to discuss with strangers their marriages, their hormone levels, and how many miscarriages they've had.
I'm not so sure about #2. But I will admit to popping a Vitamin D supplement this morning.
You never know.
Monday, April 20, 2015
The Last of the Mohicans
I was sitting on the back porch of our house with an older writer friend, and I was deep in a vin triste.
A vin triste, imaginary baby, is a French name for this thing that happens when you've read "A Farewell to Arms" too many times. Suffice it to say, there was wine and I was emotional. I thought I was anxious about my job. A stranger walked by outside our protective hemlock hedge, and your dog barked at him.
"Shut up!" the stranger snapped at my dog.
"No, YOU SHUT UP!" I screamed at him. Nobody insults your dog for doing his job. Not while I'm drunk on the back porch. He went away, and your dog resumed his patrol of the fence, and I felt foolish.
"Is this because you haven't been able to get pregnant yet?" my friend asked gently.
I looked at her, blinked once, realized she was right, and blew my nose on my shirt.
She was very patient.
"You know what you need to do," she said after refilling my glass. Which, by the way, is only one path out of a vin triste. You can either sober up (recommended), drink past it (not recommended), or give in to the self-pity and weep (utterly not recommended). All options are equally bad. This is why Hemingway is dangerous to read.
I took a ragged breath, tossed back some more rose, and said "What."
"You have to watch The Last of the Mohicans," she said sagely.
"You mean the Daniel Day-Lewis film?" I asked.
"Yep," said my famous older novelist friend. "I've had two friends, both of them trying to get pregnant. They watched The Last of the Mohicans, and bam. Just like that."
"You're kidding," I said.
"Nope," she said. "It works."
I don't have any siblings, imaginary baby. When I outlive my parents, and when I outlive my husband, my family will come to an end. Unless my novelist friend's idea works.
I, Chinoochtuk. The last of the Mohicans.
A vin triste, imaginary baby, is a French name for this thing that happens when you've read "A Farewell to Arms" too many times. Suffice it to say, there was wine and I was emotional. I thought I was anxious about my job. A stranger walked by outside our protective hemlock hedge, and your dog barked at him.
"Shut up!" the stranger snapped at my dog.
"No, YOU SHUT UP!" I screamed at him. Nobody insults your dog for doing his job. Not while I'm drunk on the back porch. He went away, and your dog resumed his patrol of the fence, and I felt foolish.
"Is this because you haven't been able to get pregnant yet?" my friend asked gently.
I looked at her, blinked once, realized she was right, and blew my nose on my shirt.
She was very patient.
"You know what you need to do," she said after refilling my glass. Which, by the way, is only one path out of a vin triste. You can either sober up (recommended), drink past it (not recommended), or give in to the self-pity and weep (utterly not recommended). All options are equally bad. This is why Hemingway is dangerous to read.
I took a ragged breath, tossed back some more rose, and said "What."
"You have to watch The Last of the Mohicans," she said sagely.
"You mean the Daniel Day-Lewis film?" I asked.
"Yep," said my famous older novelist friend. "I've had two friends, both of them trying to get pregnant. They watched The Last of the Mohicans, and bam. Just like that."
"You're kidding," I said.
"Nope," she said. "It works."
I don't have any siblings, imaginary baby. When I outlive my parents, and when I outlive my husband, my family will come to an end. Unless my novelist friend's idea works.
I, Chinoochtuk. The last of the Mohicans.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Social Media
Hey there imaginary baby,
So, out here they have this thing called the internet, where some people live. It's very noisy and distracting, which is a surprise given how little real content or aesthetic experiences are available there. But the rent is cheap.
It can be easy to keep track of people there, though, which has both its good sides and its bad sides. There will be people in your life about whom you care, but who for whatever reason you are unlikely to ever see again. Or at least, not see that often. It can be nice to have a way to keep tabs on those people. It's like seeing people in the school cafeteria. You don't say hi to everybody. Some special few you greet with a hug. Some people you wish would be hit by a truck. But most of them fall somewhere in between, people about whom it's nice to know that they're basically doing okay.
Lots of science has recently proven, however, that all our desire to demonstrate our essential okayness can be hugely depressing. Partly because in any given life an inevitable period of majorly Not Okay will fall. I'm not even all that old, and yet some major Not Okay has befallen me already. And people I know, too - death. Illness. Financial loss. Fear. There's bad stuff. It does occur.
But we often only want to share those bad things with people who make us feel safe enough. It's hug-level friend news, not cafeteria news. So we keep it hidden. And to those of us at cafeteria level, it looks like nothing bad is happening.
A few women I know were ambivalent around the same time I was. And now, all three of them have extant babies. Chub-faced pictures fill my feed. And for some others, the chub-faces have started to subside into kid-faces.
I think we've missed it, imaginary baby. And I don't want it getting all over the cafeteria, but it's starting to make me really sad.
So, out here they have this thing called the internet, where some people live. It's very noisy and distracting, which is a surprise given how little real content or aesthetic experiences are available there. But the rent is cheap.
It can be easy to keep track of people there, though, which has both its good sides and its bad sides. There will be people in your life about whom you care, but who for whatever reason you are unlikely to ever see again. Or at least, not see that often. It can be nice to have a way to keep tabs on those people. It's like seeing people in the school cafeteria. You don't say hi to everybody. Some special few you greet with a hug. Some people you wish would be hit by a truck. But most of them fall somewhere in between, people about whom it's nice to know that they're basically doing okay.
Lots of science has recently proven, however, that all our desire to demonstrate our essential okayness can be hugely depressing. Partly because in any given life an inevitable period of majorly Not Okay will fall. I'm not even all that old, and yet some major Not Okay has befallen me already. And people I know, too - death. Illness. Financial loss. Fear. There's bad stuff. It does occur.
But we often only want to share those bad things with people who make us feel safe enough. It's hug-level friend news, not cafeteria news. So we keep it hidden. And to those of us at cafeteria level, it looks like nothing bad is happening.
A few women I know were ambivalent around the same time I was. And now, all three of them have extant babies. Chub-faced pictures fill my feed. And for some others, the chub-faces have started to subside into kid-faces.
I think we've missed it, imaginary baby. And I don't want it getting all over the cafeteria, but it's starting to make me really sad.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Chub
I've put on weight.
I'm not sure how much, because fortunately the scale here isn't working. It isn't all *that* bad, as all my clothes still fit, with the sole exception of this one sheath dress that was really, really tight to begin with, and which works better with foundation garments anyway, and the last time I tried I could still get the zipper up, I just couldn't sit down, and it was kind of riding up on my hips in a not so flattering way, which suggests that there is some extra weight in my ass region.
Where I've really noticed, however, is in the boobs. I was never a chesty person, to put it lightly. In fact, I did one of those DNA tests a few years ago, the most hilarious part of which was that the test would tell you what color eyes and hair you had (because, why not?). Among those salient and easily confirmed details I was also informed I had smaller than average breasts. Thanks for the tip, I thought.
But in the last year or so, that hasn't been as much the case. I cleave now. I've had to acquire new technologies, in sizes heretofore unimagined. At different moments, they ache.
They're aching right now.
I don't know if this is due to this brain tumor situation, which changes hormones in there, or what. That seems like a reasonable explanation. Or perhaps it's just the vagaries of age. Do other women wait until their late 30s to grow breasts? Maybe not. But here they are. I can move them around, fluff them up, make them pretty.
I'm due again on Sunday. Are my newly plush breasts a clue? Or a coincidence?
I guess we'll find out soon enough.
I'm not sure how much, because fortunately the scale here isn't working. It isn't all *that* bad, as all my clothes still fit, with the sole exception of this one sheath dress that was really, really tight to begin with, and which works better with foundation garments anyway, and the last time I tried I could still get the zipper up, I just couldn't sit down, and it was kind of riding up on my hips in a not so flattering way, which suggests that there is some extra weight in my ass region.
Where I've really noticed, however, is in the boobs. I was never a chesty person, to put it lightly. In fact, I did one of those DNA tests a few years ago, the most hilarious part of which was that the test would tell you what color eyes and hair you had (because, why not?). Among those salient and easily confirmed details I was also informed I had smaller than average breasts. Thanks for the tip, I thought.
But in the last year or so, that hasn't been as much the case. I cleave now. I've had to acquire new technologies, in sizes heretofore unimagined. At different moments, they ache.
They're aching right now.
I don't know if this is due to this brain tumor situation, which changes hormones in there, or what. That seems like a reasonable explanation. Or perhaps it's just the vagaries of age. Do other women wait until their late 30s to grow breasts? Maybe not. But here they are. I can move them around, fluff them up, make them pretty.
I'm due again on Sunday. Are my newly plush breasts a clue? Or a coincidence?
I guess we'll find out soon enough.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Hurry
Your dog is sick.
I have spent the last several weeks coaxing him to eat. He's always been weird about food. I've never met another dog who could probably pass the marshmallow test, if it were sufficiently explained to him. I also believe that he speaks English, which means it *could* be explained to him. He's a smart dog. But he's almost eleven, as I am almost thirty-eight. We're not what we once were.
This week was spent in a blur of vet appointments, blood tests, x-rays, and worry. The good news is, we've ruled out anything serious. It's quite possible, imaginary baby, that your dog merely is suffering from acid reflux. We are giving him Pepcid, and it may be my imagination, but it seems to me his appetite is coming back a little.
Last night he begged for pizza crust. I gave it to him, because I am weak.
But before we knew that it was probably not serious I indulged in some seriously catastrophic thinking. I was at the hair dresser, getting shampooed, when I realized that if your dog were seriously sick, then he might die before you get here. I discovered that I had built an elaborate fantasy life about the blossoming relationship between you and your dog. He's always been very serious about babies, and takes great responsibility on himself. In my mind's eye, I have seen him guarding you carefully while you slept. Him getting agitated while you cried. Him not letting me or your would-be father get too near you. You being taught, first things first, to be gentle to your dog. I was prepared to have to explain to you that all dogs get old some day. I imagined you inconsolable, and barely comprehending, a four year old abandoned to grief over the loss of your dog.
Tears started dribbling into my ears as I slowly realized that no, I might have to bear the loss of your dog myself, without you. If I'm not putting up a front for you, then what will save me from my miserable sadness when we finally lose your dog?
You have work to do, imaginary baby. He's getting better this time, but he's eleven.
You have to hurry. Come exist in time to meet your dog.
I have spent the last several weeks coaxing him to eat. He's always been weird about food. I've never met another dog who could probably pass the marshmallow test, if it were sufficiently explained to him. I also believe that he speaks English, which means it *could* be explained to him. He's a smart dog. But he's almost eleven, as I am almost thirty-eight. We're not what we once were.
This week was spent in a blur of vet appointments, blood tests, x-rays, and worry. The good news is, we've ruled out anything serious. It's quite possible, imaginary baby, that your dog merely is suffering from acid reflux. We are giving him Pepcid, and it may be my imagination, but it seems to me his appetite is coming back a little.
Last night he begged for pizza crust. I gave it to him, because I am weak.
But before we knew that it was probably not serious I indulged in some seriously catastrophic thinking. I was at the hair dresser, getting shampooed, when I realized that if your dog were seriously sick, then he might die before you get here. I discovered that I had built an elaborate fantasy life about the blossoming relationship between you and your dog. He's always been very serious about babies, and takes great responsibility on himself. In my mind's eye, I have seen him guarding you carefully while you slept. Him getting agitated while you cried. Him not letting me or your would-be father get too near you. You being taught, first things first, to be gentle to your dog. I was prepared to have to explain to you that all dogs get old some day. I imagined you inconsolable, and barely comprehending, a four year old abandoned to grief over the loss of your dog.
Tears started dribbling into my ears as I slowly realized that no, I might have to bear the loss of your dog myself, without you. If I'm not putting up a front for you, then what will save me from my miserable sadness when we finally lose your dog?
You have work to do, imaginary baby. He's getting better this time, but he's eleven.
You have to hurry. Come exist in time to meet your dog.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Seriously?
Seriously, imaginary baby? You mean to tell me that Sarah Jessica Parker is 37 in this season of Sex and the City? The short one, where they shoot around her being pregnant?
Well that's just great. Just fucking terrific.
For one thing, I have no idea if I look as old as she does in this season. Not that she looks bad. I mean. Does she? She looks like she's had some lip work. At least.
One thing you should know about us, imaginary baby, is that we are not a plastic surgery family. Whatever nose you draw is the nose you draw, and you just have to grow some character to go with it, okay?
Also, I should mention that I, at this very moment, am 37. Oh yes. For another three weeks I am. Threeeeeee whole weeks. And then I get a whole fistful of 38, right in the face.
At least in this episode Carrie has a giant hormone zit as a plot point. Speaking as someone with at least three on her very own face right this moment. To tell you the truth, I still feel kind of duped that there was never a window of lifetime of perfect skin. The pimples aren't as bad as when I was a teenager, but they do bubble up now and again, like middle aged lava. And I'm starting to see the faint hints of where the WASP mouth-pursing lines are going to etch.
Sarah Jessica Parker has three kids, I just learned from the internet. The one she had at 37 - which will soon be younger than me, as you've probably gathered - and then twins that she had via surrogate at 44.
Yeah.
Your would-be father and I were talking about surrogacy last night, because one of the many things that has stopped me in this long, winding slog towards considering you is - now, this is going to sound really selfish - I have always hated the idea of being pregnant. I mean, sure, Sarah Jessica Parker looks cute in those pictures on the internet. Cindy Crawford. Natalie Portman. You can get your body back, I guess. If you're rich and have a trainer. And it's not like my body is so marvelous I can bear to sully it. It's just.... I like it okay. That's it. And the idea of having a live animal growing inside me grosses me out.
No offense.
But surrogacy when you don't have a medical reason seems so... it just seems kind of.... wrong.
Exploitative and wrong.
I'm due one week from today. And this is your last shot while I'm still 37. So you'd better get your act together if you want to slip in under the wire.
Well that's just great. Just fucking terrific.
For one thing, I have no idea if I look as old as she does in this season. Not that she looks bad. I mean. Does she? She looks like she's had some lip work. At least.
One thing you should know about us, imaginary baby, is that we are not a plastic surgery family. Whatever nose you draw is the nose you draw, and you just have to grow some character to go with it, okay?
Also, I should mention that I, at this very moment, am 37. Oh yes. For another three weeks I am. Threeeeeee whole weeks. And then I get a whole fistful of 38, right in the face.
At least in this episode Carrie has a giant hormone zit as a plot point. Speaking as someone with at least three on her very own face right this moment. To tell you the truth, I still feel kind of duped that there was never a window of lifetime of perfect skin. The pimples aren't as bad as when I was a teenager, but they do bubble up now and again, like middle aged lava. And I'm starting to see the faint hints of where the WASP mouth-pursing lines are going to etch.
Sarah Jessica Parker has three kids, I just learned from the internet. The one she had at 37 - which will soon be younger than me, as you've probably gathered - and then twins that she had via surrogate at 44.
Yeah.
Your would-be father and I were talking about surrogacy last night, because one of the many things that has stopped me in this long, winding slog towards considering you is - now, this is going to sound really selfish - I have always hated the idea of being pregnant. I mean, sure, Sarah Jessica Parker looks cute in those pictures on the internet. Cindy Crawford. Natalie Portman. You can get your body back, I guess. If you're rich and have a trainer. And it's not like my body is so marvelous I can bear to sully it. It's just.... I like it okay. That's it. And the idea of having a live animal growing inside me grosses me out.
No offense.
But surrogacy when you don't have a medical reason seems so... it just seems kind of.... wrong.
Exploitative and wrong.
I'm due one week from today. And this is your last shot while I'm still 37. So you'd better get your act together if you want to slip in under the wire.
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