Dumb and Dumber

So, Fagin, I've been meaning to write about this for a while. It's something I've probably thought about too much, in fact. In any case, I want to sort it out a bit. So here goes.

There are two comments I get a lot when my infertility comes up in conversation. On a good day they are just annoying, and I can recognize that they are said out of ignorance and good will. On a bad day I usually end up ranting about it to you, Fagin. You know. I've done it a lot. In fact, when one of these comments comes at a bad time I'm likely to chew it over for several days, reacting alternately with everything from anger to tears to cussing. Mostly cussing. I've mooed about how people are turds, how I'm sick of excusing really insensitive remarks on the grounds of "Ignorance" or "Awkward Situation", how if I said something similarly offensive to them, it would be more socially acceptable for them to call me out on it than it is in my case, etc. The nuances of my stupid hurt are endless.

Well, now I've cracked these comments up to be such a big deal, that it's going to seem really dumb when I remind you of what they are. Maybe that's part of my point - I don't know. It's a good reminder to me to calm the heck down. But here they are:

1. "You must be just soooo grateful for Bert!"

Ah. My first instinct upon hearing this is to feel ashamed. As though I must not be emitting adequate "glowing motherhood" vibes because I am, in fact, not grateful enough. This is probably true, though, so I usually let that slide. It's also why, when someone says this to me I only ever reply, "Oh yes, of course. We are so blessed and grateful. He's just wonderful! What a boogy woogy blah ba blahdy blah!" (I don't actually make it to the end there because usually the person I'm talking to races right on to comment two. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)

What I really badly want to say to these people is, "I think you're probably a very nice person, and I know that this is awkward for you, and while I appreciate the fact that you're trying to be all positive and remind me of the silver lining in my life, you sound like a frigging idiot right now." I want to ask them if they're reeaaally grateful for their children (comment 2 would argue maybe they're not, but what do I know?), or if they maybe think, somewhere deep down, that it's my job to be more grateful because I only have one child (maybe it is?). Or maybe they honestly think that I forgot that Bert is a blessing? In any case, what is meant as kind of a nice comment comes across as almost a scold. I feel like a big fat fool for opening my big fat mouth about that fact that, hey, um, I don't know, infertility is hard. Never mind the fact that I probably only said it because they asked.

2. Moving on. Often times comment two, as I said before, comes right on the heels of comment one. I get just enough time to feel ashamed and flustery and out comes something like, "You know, if I'm being totally honest, I'm not super thrilled with how my kids are spaced, either. If you know what I mean."

Wow.

Just wow.

I really have trouble dealing with this one. Again with the awkwardness, no harm meant, etc. I know. I really do. Which is why my immediate response is "Oh, yeah, it must be really challenging to have so many children so close in age."

"Yes," she sighs (of course it's a woman. Men don't usually say things like this), "Everyone has their crosses..."

I just... I just... man. I can't even begin to express how hurtful this is. I can't imagine saying to someone who is starving, "Yeah, starvation must be hard. But seriously, if I'm being honest, eating too much cake makes me really sick to my stomach. You know? I guess we all have our crosses..." I'm pretty sure the starving person, if she had the strength (which she doesn't, because starvation is exhausting), would lose her sh*t.

Just to be clear, let me reiterate that I do believe that mothering many young children is immensely challenging. I'm even aware that, not having done it, there is a limit to how well I understand this. But I don't for a second think that challenge is equal to the challenge of infertility. Just like I don't think secondary infertility is nearly as difficult as childlessness. Not even close. Having Bert is the greatest, most undeserved blessing of my life, and God gives me the grace to remember this many times each day. So, just as I would never complain to a childless person about how challenging a child can be, I think that a woman struggling with the challenges of many children should, in all kindness, find someone in the same boat to complain to. That may sound insensitive, but it's not. I can be sympathetic to her challenges, I can (and do) pray for her, and I can rejoice in her children. But I just CAN NOT feel sorry for her.

But hey, wouldn't it be super bi*chy of me to say all this? Yes, because it's just a dumb comment. And I make them all the time. I'm the type to say a whole mouth full of inane, boring, sometimes mildly offensive things, all because of social awkwardness. I snap in to fight-or-flight mode when a conversation feels forced, or veers in to uncomfortable territory. (I think it's f-o-f, even though it manifests itself in sweating, heavy breathing, shifty eyes, and gas.) So I should show these people the same forgiveness that I so often need.

I am trying.

While I'm doing that, though, could people just stop saying stupid-a$$ things? Oh, and thank you, Fagin, for somehow understanding this before I ever had to say it. I wish everyone, including myself, had half your awareness.

Since This Is Now Letters to No One

I will just write about what I want. So there. And what I want to write about right now is infertility (surprise! not). Particularly the good points. Wait, what? Infertility has good points? For sure. And in the interest of not losing my point completely I'm just going to list a few that have been on my mind. I won't try to explain them, because I've noticed that when I try to explain things I unexplain them.

1. Conversion, or reconversion, if you want to call it that. This continues to be the greatest benefit of infertility for me, by far. God knows exactly how hard my heart is, and no gentle means of cracking it open were going to work. He split it like a coconut.

2. Prayers. I know that myself and my family are the object of more prayers now than we ever were before. And although I forget it all the time, there is no bigger gift!

3. Food. Sometimes people feel sorry for me and make me cake or soup or brownies or whatever. Also, because our family is small, people are less intimidated to invite us over for dinner. Booya. (Which reminds me of a week or so ago when Bert shot me in the face with a Nerf gun and shouted "Booya!", but that's for another time.)

4. Daily life that, in small things, is very very easy. Caring for one increasingly independent child is so easy it's a joke. I am conscious every day that I get to shower, talk to my husband, read a book, clean my house, shop, exercise, pray, and do pretty much what ever I want when ever I want. Of course I would rather have the struggles of a large family than the struggles of infertility, but I do realize that parenting many children is, at times, very hard. I have no illusions that I would do a perfect job, or that it would be super breezy peasy all the time.

5. Gratitude. Nothing makes you appreciate the stuff that you do have like not having it all.

6. Time with my son. I love having Bert around, and really getting to know him. I am only as distracted as I make myself.

7. Sleep. I have been getting a full eight (or ten) hours of sleep almost every night for over two years now. Bet you never thought you could be jealous of an infertile lady, right?

8. Time with The Man. We were not good at putting each other first when Bert was a baby, and so much has changed between us in the last couple of years. Yay!

There's a lot more. I'll write it down some other time. And oh, look, I did explain things. Oh well. Oh, and I'm not this Pollyanna all the time. This gives me a good excuse to be super whiny next time, right?

Fagin, Are You Still Out There?

Every time I try to write I realize that I don't have anything good to say. I'm not just saying that I don't have anything juicy or original or insightful or funny... nothing good. And I don't think I should write if there's nothing good to say. It would be wrong. Although, considering the fact that no one reads this, maybe it wouldn't be so wrong... except it still would be, wouldn't it? Because I think maybe it is possible to scandalize yourself.

No, it is. I do it all the time. I start thinking something self-pitying or blaming, and pretty soon I'm sprinting down that path, and then the path tilts dangerously downhill, and putting on the breaks is damn near impossible. Before I know it I am full-on wallowing and it takes herculean effort to get back on track.

God forbid I cause that in anybody else. Woof.

Even though I do sometimes. But that's another issue on its own.

But here's the thing. Writing (or talking) about struggles doesn't mean that I have somehow "fallen". It doesn't mean I'm weak or bad. Quite a lot of other things mean I'm weak and bad, but not that.

So here goes: I am having a hard time. With infertility. With wifing, mothering, housekeeping, daughtering, sistering, creating, and sanctifying. I am bad at it all. Sometimes in shifts, sometimes all at once. Sometimes I am the Warrior Goddess of Infertility Saintliness. Sometimes, for about five minutes. Sometimes I have things organized and lovely, and manage to be cheerful to my family on top of it all. But mostly I don't. Mostly I screw things up, and wonder why I screw things up, especially the same things, damn it.

Damn it damn it.

I think a lot about the saints. So many saints. People who were not born saints, and (in many cases) were not even close to being saints for much of their lives. People whose saintliness is made up of hundreds and thousands of tiny, tough decisions to say yes. Yes to suffering, yes to weakness, yes to disappointment and fear and frustration, and stupid freaking annoying people. Most of us don't have that once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove our love for God through martyrdom. I probably won't, and thank goodness. Because I can hardly give up second helpings.

Nope, the most I hope for is that I can say "yes" to Our Lord more than I say "no". In the tiny, unseen moments of every day. I'm doing really badly so far. But He can't make me a saint if I start out as one, can He?

Oof. So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm going to try to write more often. More often than once a year. Even if I don't have anything especially inspired to say. People who are inspired all the time are just as boring as those who never are, right?

Theology for the Infant Soul

Dear Fagin,

We went to Trader Joe's yesterday. Bert looooves Trader Joe's. He gets to push his own tiny cart (like a maniac) and have little sample snacks and juice. Even the tiny cups in which the juice is served are a treat. Do your kids do this, too? Or maybe you don't let all three little boys push their own cart? Ummmm... especially the two-year-old? I can just see it... his tiny finger pointing like a general, "MY. CART!"

Anywho, back to the point. Wait a minute, I can't remember the point... ah yes, there it is. It came to me again today that I am often like a child with a cart. Except I'm in some scary huge big-box store and I can't see over the handlebar. I think to myself, "I've got this. No problem. It's even kind of fun...". I crash around with abandon a lot of the time. I bump into things, mumble an apology, and go the other way. Then I crash into something else. I get side-tracked by juice and treats. I get distracted by huge signs advertising quick fixes and great sales. I forget what I came to buy.

I am a moron.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the idea of pushing my own cart, a cart filled with all my own ideas and dreams and feelings and wills, is ludicrous. Like the rapper. It's kind of laughable. I can't even see where I'm going sometimes, except when I look behind me. And a lot of the time looking behind me doesn't help much because I get discouraged by all the wreckage and debris I've left in my wake.

The truth is, I'm not big enough to push. I'm not smart enough or good enough or strong enough. I don't know the way. I don't know what I'm supposed to be putting in the cart. I don't know what I should be leaving behind... and I shouldn't be helping myself to all the juice I want! Because really, I think God wants me to let Him lift me up to the seat. To not throw a tantrum when the control is taken away. To look at things from this new perspective... to be carried. Up there I can see. I can see where He's taking me (at least part of the way), I can see what He's putting in my cart, and most of all I get a great view of his Adorable Face. Sometimes He lets his Lovely Mother push me around. And she is so beautiful! She smiles all the time, even when I yank things off the shelf and make a huge mess. Sometimes she gives me juice.

Being in the cart is so much better than pushing it. True, sometimes He walks out of sight, and it's then I know He wants me to climb down and push by myself for a little while. Man, it's hard! And I ought to be glad when He's ready to take over again. I'm ashamed to say sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I wrestle. Sometimes I throw one of those nasty public tantrums and arch my back and kick as He tries to put me back in the seat. And He lets me. He won't fight me to the point of taking my will. He just waits patiently until I realize that it's dirty on the ground, and there's something gross stuck in the wheels of the cart, and people keep tripping over me.

Do you see how this analogy could go on forever? He is so good to teach me in ways I can understand! I think He just wants us to remember that He is here. That our carts don't have to weigh us down the way they do. That they may never be less cumbersome, but that with His help we will fly along the way!

You know how it feels when you push your cart in the parking lot, and get up to a jog and then jump on and coast? You know the look on your kids' faces when you do?

Be the kid in the cart! In this life it doesn't get any better than that.

love,

Hook

Breakfast Fail

Good morning!

I burned the oatmeal again.

Let me back up a bit. When I woke up this morning, it was a brisk 62 degrees in the house. Still is, actually. That's ok, though, because I am wearing two bathrobes. Boo-yah. Anyway, feeling the chill in the air, and inspired by my neighbor's tree (yes, it's a very blurry tree. I don't know how she got it to grow like that), I decided to make some oatmeal. All apple-y and raisiny, with a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg. I was smug and self-satisfied as I made it, thinking of Bert asleep upstairs, and how happy he'd be. He was up half the night coughing up a lung (and maybe a spleen), after all.

Then, what do you know, I hear him hacking and go up to say good morning and get him into dry, warm clothes because he peed through his diaper again. Yes, in my bed. And we sit and snuggle in The Man's office and feel the love, and then the dang smoke detector goes off and I run downstairs cursing under my breath because I know why. Oh, I know why.

Because I burned the dang oatmeal. Again. As in, it happens about 75% of the time that I make oatmeal. And I just want to know why. Why is that the thing that I always do?

It's so lame.

Ashamed,

Hook

Oh Boy

I'm going through storage bins. Making piles of things to give and throw away.

Baby clothes.

Things I've kept for far too long already. Bert will be four next March, after all. And it doesn't look like there will be another baby... maybe, maybe, but probably not. Even though Bert told me for the hundredth time today that he would like us to have two kids. One two.

Me, too.

I was doing ok earlier today. Picking through, choosing one or two things to keep. Keepsakes for when Bert's older. Dividing the rest into little piles for nephews, getting rid of a lot because Bert just spat up so so much as a baby. But I'm back at it now, and I'm getting that feeling again. That heaviness on my chest. It's actually hard to breathe. If I let myself, I know I could have a good hard cry.

And sometimes I do let myself. But not today. Because today there is a joy that's greater than the pain. Somehow even part of it. Earlier today I realized for sure that, even given the chance, I would not take this small sorrow out of my heart. Because through it God is showing me His Immense Love. Through it He is shaping me into the "me" He always had in mind. A better "me" than I would be if I just got my way. His Love is slaying me. And as I die to myself a little more each day (I have far to go, and it is slow work for Him) He awakens me to Himself.

I can't explain it. I don't have words. But I keep trying. I think He wants me to.

If you are weary, take heart. Literally. Take His heart into yours. It's not complicated, just ask Him.

If you suffer, suffer still. Suffer joyfully. Ask Him to help in this, too. I asked so very many times for help on this one. I'm still asking. But boy, does He answer.

And if you feel alone, know that you are loved. You are so so loved that if you even had an inkling of how much your heart might just explode.

And I love you, too.

Thanks for reading, Fagin. Thanks for listening while I talk everything through with you. It is a gift to have such a friend. Many don't.

much love,

Hook

Mother of Small Children

Dear Fagin,

I don't mean to be all "stuck in a rut", topic wise. Promise. But Our Dear Lord keeps sending me the most beautiful inspirations and promises, and I CAN'T not share this one.

You see, he led me to think about Bert. You know how his shoes are always too big? (If there's anyone else reading, Bert has a thing for shoes. And darn it if he doesn't always sniff out a new (used) pair before they fit him, and insist on wearing them.) Well, it causes my boy to trip. And veer. And... clomp.

Also, you know how I've been talking about Mary lately? No, not gossiping, the Blessed Virgin Mary. How I've never cultivated a relationship with her? How I kind of always thought I should go right to the Big Guy, skip the middleman, all that? And then you mention again recently how all of these great saints and mystics and wonderful people throughout history have talked about how wonderful she is? How beautiful, how powerful, the Highway to God, etc.? Gosh, how there's an entire Litany to her? So finally I start thinking, "Hey, Dummy. These people probably know better than you. (And, by the way, I bet Jesus is just tickled when we love his Beloved Mother.)"

So I start in. Tentatively at first. Asking timidly, feeling the water. Not sure how I feel about Mothers. Asking her for her help in getting to know her. Getting to (gulp) love her. (I know, ok! I'm on some very low loooooow levels of spirituality here.) And what does she do?

She says to me, "Hold my hand."

... gaping...

... crickets...

I am stunned right down to my toes. Let me splain. I am so much like Bert. All willful in my big shoes, clomping around making messes. And when I trip? Well, now I don't have to worry about falling flat on my nose, rolling around in the dirt kicking and screaming. She's holding my hand, so I don't fall far at all. My Gentle Mother scoops me up, puts me back on my feet and tells me to keep running. Heck, she runs with me!

We have the same goal, after all.

with much love and joy,

Hook