This blogpost has been a long-time coming. It's been percolating in my brain for some time; sometimes swelling with ideas and rants, other times waning, always knowing this one's gonna piss people off. So be it. Maybe this blog will resonate with others, maybe not. So be it.
My cousin gave birth to twins this week. A healthy boy and a healthy girl. Our family is beyond overjoyed at the simcha. We have a bris to attend next week. Mazel Tov to the whole mischpachah!
Her pregnancy was not easy. At all. But you know what else it was not? It was not PUBLIC.
Once upon a time, you didn't even tell people you were "trying" to get pregnant. It was no one's business. And it was generally accepted that if you were asked by someone if you were trying or why you didn't have children yet, that person was identified as a bonafide social retard. (True story: my parents were married in 1965 but I was not born until 1970. Pregnancy didn't come easy or quickly but came naturally in time. They tolerated obnoxious inquiries over the years but finally fed up, when someone was dick enough to ask my father why my mother wasn't pregnant yet, my Dad looked him straight in the eye and solemnly lied, "You don't know? We can't have children." And my Dad walked away. Shut them up though. Stupid people exist in every decade.)
Almost five years ago, I visited close friends up north. The wife was not feeling well and her usual consumption of fun food and fruity sodas was replaced with ginger ale and crackers. I was there for the weekend; there was no way they could hide it from me while I was staying in their home. They quietly admitted they were expecting a baby. I was overjoyed with the news and kept the secret until they reached the three-month mark and began sharing the news with others. They had also admitted they'd been trying for almost a year -- no one knew. It was their own private journey and struggle, shared only with each other and their doctors. The way, I believe, it should be. Today, their four-year-old son is the smartest little boy I've ever encountered and I love him to the moon and back.
I have other friends who have waged war with infertility; a quiet knowledge and silent-but-unsaid support was all I could offer because, honestly, what words can ever be right? I know which couples (and which single friends) have absolutely no interest in being parents, ever (or ever again.) I know which friends were "surprised" by their pregnancies and which worked for years at making them a reality. I know which friend wanted more children but the spouse did not. I know which couple opted for the cost of IVF before paying for a wedding. I know which friend championed IVF as a single woman and built a career writing about the family & life she's created for herself and son. I know which couple would love to have more children but finances don't allow it. I know which friends I've spoken to on the phone when they called to share the heartbreaking news that they'd miscarried. But I know all this because we are FRIENDS.
Nowadays? You might as well take out a full-page ad in the NY POST announcing that you're officially trying to get pregnant. They should add a page to the Sport Section with box scores on your progress, charting your ovulation dates and body temperatures (plus an over under for good measure.) Go on, Tweet every ejaculation. Post on Facebook when you get your period, followed by lots of sad emoticons. This phenomenon of oversharing information about the most deeply personal and intimate topics has reached epidemic proportions.
You can, naturally, join an online message board community populated by other women TTC. Oh, that? That's "Trying To Conceive" because if you wanna have babies, you BEST learn how to use an ungodly and beyond-stupid vocabulary of acronyms beloved by those who in most cases can't spell the word "acronym." ( Honestly, it's a virus-like affliction I've only ever witnessed before among delusional, obsessed Disney fans online. Rage! Rage against the new whole wheat hot dog buns on Main Street!) Every state, every region, apparently has an online community devoted to every bit of minutia related to thinking about pregnancy, attempts to conceive, infertility, AI, IVF, miscarriages, adoption, pregnancy, delivery, new parenting, what food and toys and clothing and cleaning supplies and breast pumps and diapers to buy... (In this region, there is one specific website that is the flagship alternate cyber reality of choice but I don't dare mention it by name or link to its URL because, well... to put it plainly... them bitches be crazy. And humorless. Seriously, it's like driving by a 24-car pile-up on the Long Island Expressway-- you can't look away from the disaster once you've seen it. Wow.)
People want to connect with others. People want to know they are not alone. People want to share their experiences and alleviate their fears and anxieties by communicating with others who are experiencing (or have experienced) the same things. I get it. But there is the fine line between sharing and having a very unsteady handle on the concept of disclosure. And then there is the abyss into which too many of these people are falling.
Sadly, I've spent some time observing the local nut plantation online. (Full admission: while one friend was home after the birth of her first child, her well-meaning friend directed her to an online pregnancy community; finding it pathetic and hilarious, my friend immediately shared it with me so we could be horrified together.) Like any other online community, it has an array of personalities, inevitable cliques, a handful of bullies, a sprinkling of the self-righteous pontificating from upon high, and a staggering amount of morons (seriously -- how some of these women figured out the physiological mechanics of even getting pregnant - let alone are being permitted to reproduce and parent - baffles me and makes me weep for the evolution of our species.) Mostly though, it was a massive room full of circus mirrors where women completely obsessed with sharing, discussing, comparing, and debating every element of their pregnancies do so without ever seeing how all-consuming, self-absorbed, and compulsive their behavior is because all they receive back is adoration and support and reassurance in the reflections of the other equally self-obsessed women there. It was The Secret Sorority Of The Needy And Knocked Up. Were they not getting what they needed (craved? believed they deserved?) from their husbands? parents? MILs? (again, with the acronyms -- look it up) strangers online in Dunkin' Donuts? or from their friends? They felt they had to create alternate online realities and relationships that catered to their insatiable appetite for attention?
These women share, ONLINE, photos of used pregnancy tests (yes, stained pee sticks!) showing the results... every week or every month, new photos of their ever expanding bellies posted for the public to see (and trust me, it's public -- it's not a members only website. Whatever you're putting out there for your fellow preggers, ladies, is out there for the world. Forever.) There are a lot of physical changes our bodies go through during pregnancy and labor and post-delivery. For the life of me, I can't imagine sharing that information (via words, let alone with visuals!) with anyone other than my partner, my mother and very closest friends at most for support... but plastering it on the internet? Have you no modesty? No shame? (And don't get all militant about how it's natural, it's the miracle of birth, it's the human body -- yeah, yeah, I know all that. THIS? is not about THAT. This is about your all-consuming, narcissistic need for attention which you've gone about quenching by getting yourself pregnant. But I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Perhaps its my Jewish upbringing but when it comes to pregnancies I fall solidly into the superstitious contingency. Don't even tell people (other than the smallest of inner circles) until you're past the three-month, even four-month point. I prefer the No Baby Shower tradition. I never ask if a couple knows if they've having a boy or a girl; how is that my business? I don't like it when baby names are shared before the birth either - sending baby shower thank you notes FROM the yet-to-be-birthed gift recipient? (Sidebar: Really? If you go up to pregnant women and touch their bellies you need to be kneed in the groin!) Yet, in this new digital world, everyone is sharing everything with everybody instantly in real time. With people online who are STRANGERS. Two-to-one odds the "dear husbands" have NO clue their wives are putting this personal data on display for the entire world. And I can't decide which to blame and shame the hubbies for more: for being blind idiots or for indulging this deplorable, selfish behavior. I know, I know... this is a very special time for you and your husband in your marriage. You're creating a family and it's a miracle of nature and there is a new life growing inside you and... seriously? you just posted online that you're spotting, then shared a photo of your swollen, Elephant-Man-esque cankles. What is wrong with you people?
God willing, labor and delivery go smoothly and even the nuttiest nutbar of a new mom goes home healthy with a very healthy newborn. If this newborn is my friends' child or a new relative, I will smother it with love and attention and devotion. I will be overjoyed at your blessing. Go ahead, whip out your giant boobs to nurse or pump. I don't care. Tell me all about every (gross) detail of your natural birth and recovery. Or how awesome the drugs were after your Caesarean (you know -- when the babies pop out like toast.) I'll babysit while you take a nap. I'll do the dishes. I'll run errands for you. Diapers? I ain't afraid of no diapers regardless of their contents. I will help you in any way I can. I will spoil the shit out of your child (and then change that shit-filled Pamper.)
What I won't do is treat this offspring as the second coming or coronate and crown you as the Queen Mother now that you've reproduced. Women are pregnant all the time. Women have babies every day. Every hour. Every second. Everywhere on earth. You are NOT the first and only, nor the last, woman to have a baby. These days, too many women expect that upon arrival at the hospital in labor, right after getting into their gown and being hooked up to monitors they should be measured (height and wingspan) for the wooden cross they plan to call home once they've delivered (I think it's like a $60 co-pay to a local carpenter.) Don't deny it. You know some of these women. Motherhood is not martyrdom. Our own mothers worked their asses off and perhaps we didn't appreciate it as much as we should have when we were younger, but what did we know? We know better now, as adults. My mother is my hero. Motherhood is a blessing and sometimes a seemingly thankless job. It shouldn't be. It should be celebrated and respected. It ain't easy. And it should be celebrated by your husbands, in-laws, and offspring everyday-- plus, you already get Mother's Day. Yet for some, that's still not enough attention. Gender infighting (I'm talking about you cover of TIME) between working moms versus stay-at-home moms is a no-win proposition. Nor is the whining by some working moms who have to make public how they feel so guilty just so we all know how guilty they feel... versus the incessant fishing-for-sympathy by some of the SAHMs (again, acronyms, look it up) - how is this any different than a toddler's cries for attention? (If only a Tupperware full of Cheerios and 30 minutes of Dora would shut these women up.) Knock it off, all of you. Neither is better or worse - whatever works best for your family is what works best for your family. No one else's opinion matters but if you're so defensive about your choices, it's you who has the issue.
I love my friends. I love their children. I am Aunt Ilene and Aunt Ilene rocks so hard in so many ways. Aunt Ilene has "nieces" and "nephews" ranging from months old to age nineteen. I love them all. But the common denominator are their mothers (and fathers) who became fuller, happier (though, admittedly-more-frazzled and more sleep-deprived) individuals once their kids arrived. Life might be more difficult and the logistics and finances parenthood brings might be a bit of a hurdle at first, but life should be brighter, bolder, hold more wonder -- like when Dorothy stepped out of black & white into color. The birth of children and the role as parent enhanced their lives exponentially but didn't singularly define them to the exclusion of everything and everyone that came before or to the exclusion and dismissal of everyone who isn't also a parent. Because don't for a second believe that The Shunning doesn't take place. It does. (And if/when you do it, you're a total doucheloaf.) Remember, Dorothy returned to sepia-toned Kansas where those who truly loved her had always been. (Also, no creepy flying monkeys dressed like bellhops.)These days, my closest friends with children (and favorite Facebook friends with children) whose company (and posts) I enjoy most are those who are not Zombie Moms. They manage to balance home and career, husbands and children, crazy schedules full of doctors appointments and ballet classes and field days and birthday parties... and they do it, if not gracefully, than at least with aplomb and a helluva sense of humor. They don't take themselves so seriously and aren't gunning for some Mother Of The Year trophy. I don't want to be friends with the perfect soccer-Mom who bakes homemade cupcakes decorated with fondant for a classroom birthday party. I wanna share margaritas with the mom who barely remembers to drop off the Dunkin' Donuts but surprises her daughter with Kelly Clarkson concert tickets. I don't like the mother who dresses her children up for photos for every holiday theme (your children are not ferrets.) Never trust the Mom whose hair and clothes and nails are perpetually perfect. Flog anyone who claims now that they're a parent they have no time to read a book, see a movie, watch any TV, follow the news... make an effort; it'll make you a more well-rounded person, a better parent, and much less of an asshole. Life is messy. Messy is fun. Laugh about that. Celebrate THAT.
Most of all, these friends don't think any less of me as a person, they don't perceive me as some sort of inherent failure, because I don't have children. (Trust me, there are those that do... and there are those that, though they will deny it, think it.) The truth is, everyone's story is their own and women can be such judgmental, horrific, saboteurs of their own sex. I want my friends to love their children beyond all imagination. But don't imagine for a second it makes you a better person. It might make you a better version of YOU, but it doesn't make you an inherently better person than me or anyone else.
I know, some will defensively reply that because I don't have children of my own I can't possibly understand.
To that retort I say, "Oh, will you SHUT UP!"
Or, you know, get your own blog (which I won't read because I already hide your sanctimonious, mind-numbing Facebook updates!)
The plain, simple truth is, I don't have children.
This wasn't the plan. Isn't the plan. (Was there a plan?) It's just reality. At the present.
But looking at me (or any woman, really) you don't know anything about me (or her.)
You don't know if I want children or not.
You can't tell whether I like children or can't tolerate their presence.
You don't know if I am pregnant now (OK, if I'm 8 months, that's sort of a tell, but if I'm 4 weeks in? No.)
You don't know if I've been informed I'm unable to have children.
And whether I'm devastated or nonplussed by that news.
You don't know if I'm actively trying to get pregnant...
How long I've been trying and how depressed I am about it.
How much it's costing me or how many hormones are surging through my body as part of this process...
You can't possibly know just by looking at me how many times I've been pregnant before...
Or if I've given a child up for adoption.
Whether I've had a abortion. Or a miscarriage. Or a stillborn. Or how many.
You don't know any other woman's story.
So when you look at another woman, don't think that because you spread your legs you are somehow are a more valid human, or a better woman, than someone else.
All you did was what women have been doing throughout the ages.
That, in and of itself, does not make you special.
Your"special" needs to emanate from another source.
Now back to the previously scheduled (and I promise you, more humorous) program...
A few random things I'd like to get off my mind once and for all (and on behalf of some friends who have been encouraging -- wait, no, that's not the right word... what is it? oh, yeah. HARASSING ME - harassing me to write & post this blog, finally.) Ready? (I doubt it.)
- Do NOT post pictures of your children's injuries on Facebook. Do NOT rush to Facebook first to ask suggestions about what to DO regarding said child's injuries -- get in your car and get to the fucking E.R. now!
- When your kids are newborns or toddlers or in elementary school, a lot of what you post about them might be adorable and amusing (it better be or I'll hide your status updates) but once they're in Junior High and High School, it just becomes sorta creepy. You are not the cool Mom
- Post all the photos you like; I promise I'll never tell you if I think your kids are ugly.
- It's that time of year again when Facebook is bombarded with so many sad mothers bemoaning the horror which awaits them: the burden of packing trunks for sleepaway camp. This is followed by 8 weeks of bemoaning how much they miss their kids (peppered now and then by an update alluding to a letter or photos from your one day of visitation.) Champagne problems, people. Solution: don't send them. You don't have to pack. You don't miss them. We don't suffer the whining.
- Breast feeding is not open for public debate. Whether someone chooses to breast feed their child or not, unless it's your boob, it's not your business. Period. It's a personal decision by the mother (and father, perhaps doctor, only) and no amount of propaganda, shaming, or tsk-tsk-ing on your part should be tolerated. Again, if you think breastfeeding makes you a "better parent" I'd look to your bullying behavior which clearly indicates otherwise. Suck on that.
- It's a 50/50 toss-up on whether the pregnant body is beautiful - depends upon the body, depends upon the eye of the beholder. But I think we can all agree, the plaster mold or oil portrait or boudoir photosession done during your eighth month is nothing I need to see (nor does it need to hang in the living room above the fireplace. Clearly, that's what creepy, oversharing, message boards are for.)
- Do not dress your children up like farm animals. Ever.
- Dressing your children up in political costumes and garments is akin to child abuse.
- Dress your kids properly - in clean, well-fitted clothing. (May I suggest a nice vintage Van Halen tee? A classic KISS onesie is always a good choice.)
- Don't let your children use foul language and swear.
- Teach your children manners -- please and thank you, to start.
- Teach your children how to behave in a restaurant. Please. Or don't take them out to eat. I'm not of the mind that children should be seen and not heard; the sound of a baby's peeling laughter is music to my ears anywhere. But a screaming toddler mid-tantrum over appetizers (or during a major plot twist in a movie theater or during a wedding ceremony) makes me apoplectic. Remove that child now! How difficult a concept is this for you - the adult in charge - to grasp?!
- If you have a dog, it's NOT a child. Don't compare it to a baby. Don't dress it up like a baby. That's beyond insulting and in no way equivalent. It's not a baby; it's a DOG. (I might come down hard on Zombie Moms but come the fuck on, people. Really.)
- Not every conversation you have HAS to be about your kids. And you don't have to dovetail and steer every topic back to your kids. You no longer can claim Pregnancy Brain for your lack of IQ points -- step up your game, sister, because I sure hope you have more to offer your child.
- It's a birthday party for god's sake. For a 2-year-old. NOT for you. Not for the Duchess of York. This isn't Real Housewives of (Fill In The Blank) Suburbia... stop pissing away money to impress other people. Especially if the birthday boy/girl is still pooping in diapers! And if your offspring is old enough to pull a Veruca Salt, stop spoiling them (and stop bankrupting yourself!) You are creating monsters.
- Those stick figure decals on the back window of your car (oh, who are we kidding? it's a freakin' minivan ) -- to quote Farmer Ted, "take those RIDICULOUS things OFF..."
- "I make humans. What's your super power?" on a t-shirt/bumpersticker/Facebook wall is freakin' obnoxious. My super power? I can point out insecure women who will live vicariously through their children. Whah-Whah...
- Let's talk children's music. SOME of it (Barenaked Ladies, They Might Be Giants, and few of the funnier songs on XM/Sirius's KIDS Channel - especially "I Think I'm A Bunny" and "The Princess Who Saved Herself"...trust me, look for them on YouTube, but I digress) SOME of it is awesome. Some of it is tolerable. Some of it is U.S. military grade torture. For the love of all that is holy, teach your kids the rock 'n' roll devil horns (pinky up, pointer up, and your thumb holds the other two down) and introduce them to some REAL music. Start with The Beatles. You'll be growing cooler kids. WAY cooler kids. Trust me. AC/DC is still around. The WIGGLES are dead. Know it. Learn it. Live it. \m/.
- Once you're a parent, you are never NOT a parent. The job NEVER ends. EVER.
I'm lucky to know some truly amazing women.
Some married. Some married with children. Some single. Some single with children.
They're all amazing or I wouldn't tolerate them in my life. And they're amazing mothers - even if, at times, they doubt themselves, which they shouldn't, ever. EVER.
They're kicking ass and raising really bright, warm, caring, incredible sons and daughters.
But their stories and their journeys are their own. And they will share them with me, their friend, if they so choose, in time. And I'll share my stories with my friends.
But if you think you'll ever find photos of my peed-upon EPT sticks posted online, then my First Reponse to you is: seek help, pronto.
You've been warned.
Beware The Evil Sisterhood of the Maternity Pants.
Rage against the Zombie Mom Apocalypse. It's real.
Only we women can save ourselves...
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