I wrote this for a Master's class I had. It is weird that I have come as far as I have, but I still feel like this girl, too. It has not set in. Enjoy.
Aunting
My father says he will help us adopt a child. To me, it sounds like he wants to buy me a Romanian Baby, and I decline. It is a genuine offer; he wants nothing more than to assuage the hollow pain inside of me. His is a world in which commodities are bought and sold and where, if money cannot buy happiness, it is because you are looking in the wrong shopping centers. While I am not opposed to accepting Christmas and birthday presents of shirts and candy, it seems wrong to accept money in order to offset the costs of adoption. It is not that I am ungrateful, but I feel as though I should foot the bill in order to become a mother.***Note: We are now completely broke and will take all the money we can get...we have no pride.***
Money never entered into my thoughts as far as a prerequisite for parenting. Mostly, we scraped together what we could for birth control, and figured that things would work out when it was time. The issue of babies never seemed to be challenging when I looked at the pictures in our World Book Encyclopedia; it all seemed pretty straight-forward. Yet, here I am, two ovaries, some fallopian tubes, and three years worth of fertility bills later, and things seem complicated.
I never expected the sorrow and jealousy to be so consuming. I find myself looking at couples as they wander the mall, judging their health and fitness. A man is no longer his occupation or interest, but his sperm count. I wonder if his soldiers are fast swimmers, or if he has spent one too many nights steaming in a sauna. I look at women and think about their uterine lining. I imagine that they are able to feel their eggs travel down in safety and accuracy. Once implanted, these women will also be able sense their embryo instantly, in an Earth-Mother sort of way that connects women to their primal ancestors. They will wake up in the morning, their faces dewy and aglow and be wiser; they will exclaim to their friends, “Something was different. I just knew.” This bond, this sharing of pregnancy is one that they will all see. I know that I will not. ***Note--does this stop me from demanding that W donate on a regular basis, in case they missed something? No. Poor, poor W. He hates that little coat closet with the trashy magazines...***
Depending on my level of self-pity, I may also take my time at the mall to watch couples beating their children. I see them yanking and twisting arms, promising or withholding treats, and threatening to sell random children to Gypsies. I cannot understand why I, who have never kicked a dog or thrown someone off of a trailer roof, have no children, while these couples, apparently on their way to an appearance on the Jerry Springer Show have been given at least six. I will remark to myself how awful it is that God has given children to just about every unattractive couple in the mall, but none to me, whose genes actually have some promise of cuteness. I envision a world where I have to vote for Lamoni Christiansen for Governor, or where my boss is named M’Kaela LaDawn or M’Kenna LaRae Jensen. Most days, it degenerates from this point into a whole afternoon of movies on the Lifetime channel.
I have learned from all of this afternoon television that there are many stages in grief work. Denial, anger, acceptance are the big three, but I have gone through them all. In moving through my sorrow I have realized that it is not enough to be jealous and pitiful; revenge is a very important factor. In order to face the future I have started a practice that my nieces joyfully call “Aunting.” Instead of looking at the mall children and weeping, I see their grubby faces and sticky hands and then buy my nieces some white linen dresses and finger-paint for later. I see harried mothers trying in vain to keep their buzzing children from overdosing on sugars and food coloring, and I bolt to the candy store and purchase six different types of cotton candy. I watch a mother yell at her children for not going to sleep, and head to the bookstore where I buy the scariest stories I can find, the ones I know that my nieces will demand constant re-reading. I overhear a woman talking about how she can’t bear to have her children watch television, and I stop and purchase a video with some type of cartoon toilet humor, preferably one where there is a catchy song involving the word “poop.” I watch toddlers begging their mothers for gumball change, and I fill up my bag with rolls of pennies and nickels, all to be mailed to my darlings.
This is passive-aggressive, I know, but I feel so much better. I may not have my own children, but I know that there are children whose lives I contribute to, and mothers whose lives I actively make harder. If I can’t have the perfect uterine wall, then my sister can’t have a clean wall in her home. If I have to struggle with peeing in a cup, I want to ensure that my nieces know a song about peeing in the swimming pool. Natural child birth for my sister means that her daughters will know all of the words to “Natural Woman” and I will throw in pelvic-thrust dance moves as a gift with purchase. Each phone call about Jordan’s new tooth ensures a box of candy. Alaina’s burgeoning love of music requires the world’s most annoying tapes to listen to while they drive. Does Jordan love ballerinas? She needs an entire outfit and to be encouraged to not take it off for family pictures. Alaina loves bugs? Let’s send her a complete, working ant farm. My nieces think that I am the ultimate in love and goodness and light; my sister thinks that I am the devil.
Once I accepted the children in my life as my own special tool for payback, I found that I love my nieces with a passion that I had not quite expected. Though I want children, I am not a person who enjoys other people’s kids. I never imagined myself as one to hold children and kiss their necks, yet with each newborn child I find myself holding them and kissing every possible exposed part I could find. I carry them, all balled up and delicious, whispering messages that they needed to relay back to God; I want them to remind Him that they need some cousins. Now that many of my nieces are older, I find that they give me joy beyond anything I could have imagined, and then I send them home, crashing from their sugar highs and covered in some type of hard-to-wash goo. This also gives me joy beyond anything that I could have imagined.
One day I will hold my own child in my arms, and I will feel some sort of affinity with these women, the strangers and sisters that I have spent so much time vilifying and antagonizing. I will introduce my sister to her very first niece triumphantly, albeit tired and elated, and I fully expect my sister to surreptitiously lace the bottle with Jolt Cola and place a tiny dollop of finger-paint in my baby’s outstretched fists. And so the “Aunting” will begin.
My father says he will help us adopt a child. To me, it sounds like he wants to buy me a Romanian Baby, and I decline. It is a genuine offer; he wants nothing more than to assuage the hollow pain inside of me. His is a world in which commodities are bought and sold and where, if money cannot buy happiness, it is because you are looking in the wrong shopping centers. While I am not opposed to accepting Christmas and birthday presents of shirts and candy, it seems wrong to accept money in order to offset the costs of adoption. It is not that I am ungrateful, but I feel as though I should foot the bill in order to become a mother.***Note: We are now completely broke and will take all the money we can get...we have no pride.***
Money never entered into my thoughts as far as a prerequisite for parenting. Mostly, we scraped together what we could for birth control, and figured that things would work out when it was time. The issue of babies never seemed to be challenging when I looked at the pictures in our World Book Encyclopedia; it all seemed pretty straight-forward. Yet, here I am, two ovaries, some fallopian tubes, and three years worth of fertility bills later, and things seem complicated.
I never expected the sorrow and jealousy to be so consuming. I find myself looking at couples as they wander the mall, judging their health and fitness. A man is no longer his occupation or interest, but his sperm count. I wonder if his soldiers are fast swimmers, or if he has spent one too many nights steaming in a sauna. I look at women and think about their uterine lining. I imagine that they are able to feel their eggs travel down in safety and accuracy. Once implanted, these women will also be able sense their embryo instantly, in an Earth-Mother sort of way that connects women to their primal ancestors. They will wake up in the morning, their faces dewy and aglow and be wiser; they will exclaim to their friends, “Something was different. I just knew.” This bond, this sharing of pregnancy is one that they will all see. I know that I will not. ***Note--does this stop me from demanding that W donate on a regular basis, in case they missed something? No. Poor, poor W. He hates that little coat closet with the trashy magazines...***
Depending on my level of self-pity, I may also take my time at the mall to watch couples beating their children. I see them yanking and twisting arms, promising or withholding treats, and threatening to sell random children to Gypsies. I cannot understand why I, who have never kicked a dog or thrown someone off of a trailer roof, have no children, while these couples, apparently on their way to an appearance on the Jerry Springer Show have been given at least six. I will remark to myself how awful it is that God has given children to just about every unattractive couple in the mall, but none to me, whose genes actually have some promise of cuteness. I envision a world where I have to vote for Lamoni Christiansen for Governor, or where my boss is named M’Kaela LaDawn or M’Kenna LaRae Jensen. Most days, it degenerates from this point into a whole afternoon of movies on the Lifetime channel.
I have learned from all of this afternoon television that there are many stages in grief work. Denial, anger, acceptance are the big three, but I have gone through them all. In moving through my sorrow I have realized that it is not enough to be jealous and pitiful; revenge is a very important factor. In order to face the future I have started a practice that my nieces joyfully call “Aunting.” Instead of looking at the mall children and weeping, I see their grubby faces and sticky hands and then buy my nieces some white linen dresses and finger-paint for later. I see harried mothers trying in vain to keep their buzzing children from overdosing on sugars and food coloring, and I bolt to the candy store and purchase six different types of cotton candy. I watch a mother yell at her children for not going to sleep, and head to the bookstore where I buy the scariest stories I can find, the ones I know that my nieces will demand constant re-reading. I overhear a woman talking about how she can’t bear to have her children watch television, and I stop and purchase a video with some type of cartoon toilet humor, preferably one where there is a catchy song involving the word “poop.” I watch toddlers begging their mothers for gumball change, and I fill up my bag with rolls of pennies and nickels, all to be mailed to my darlings.
This is passive-aggressive, I know, but I feel so much better. I may not have my own children, but I know that there are children whose lives I contribute to, and mothers whose lives I actively make harder. If I can’t have the perfect uterine wall, then my sister can’t have a clean wall in her home. If I have to struggle with peeing in a cup, I want to ensure that my nieces know a song about peeing in the swimming pool. Natural child birth for my sister means that her daughters will know all of the words to “Natural Woman” and I will throw in pelvic-thrust dance moves as a gift with purchase. Each phone call about Jordan’s new tooth ensures a box of candy. Alaina’s burgeoning love of music requires the world’s most annoying tapes to listen to while they drive. Does Jordan love ballerinas? She needs an entire outfit and to be encouraged to not take it off for family pictures. Alaina loves bugs? Let’s send her a complete, working ant farm. My nieces think that I am the ultimate in love and goodness and light; my sister thinks that I am the devil.
Once I accepted the children in my life as my own special tool for payback, I found that I love my nieces with a passion that I had not quite expected. Though I want children, I am not a person who enjoys other people’s kids. I never imagined myself as one to hold children and kiss their necks, yet with each newborn child I find myself holding them and kissing every possible exposed part I could find. I carry them, all balled up and delicious, whispering messages that they needed to relay back to God; I want them to remind Him that they need some cousins. Now that many of my nieces are older, I find that they give me joy beyond anything I could have imagined, and then I send them home, crashing from their sugar highs and covered in some type of hard-to-wash goo. This also gives me joy beyond anything that I could have imagined.
One day I will hold my own child in my arms, and I will feel some sort of affinity with these women, the strangers and sisters that I have spent so much time vilifying and antagonizing. I will introduce my sister to her very first niece triumphantly, albeit tired and elated, and I fully expect my sister to surreptitiously lace the bottle with Jolt Cola and place a tiny dollop of finger-paint in my baby’s outstretched fists. And so the “Aunting” will begin.
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4 comments:
My sister is really good at Aunting. She particularly likes getting Will riled up until he's so hyper that he pukes. That's good Aunting.
I love this post for so many reasons. Now that you have a child, your "aunting" options aren't over. True that you will have less money to devote to it (especially when you buy a baby as good as Gigi). It is best is when you live far away so your kid isn't also touched by the stuff you do. I love the part about dressing the girl up as a ballerina and then encorage them not to take the outfit off for family pictures. Classic.
You are a very gifted writer and you captured the feelings of many women. I love this essay--you should send it a womans magazine for freelance. Seriously. It really hits home. :-)
This morning I saw my neighbor with her almost four year old. As you may recall, October mornings in Provo are about 40 degrees.
There was little Lauren, outside with her mom, in her little cougarette uniform! Tiny tank top, little pleated mini-skirt. She looked so pleased with herself, and it was freezing outside!
I had to laugh, that is a perfect example of someone Aunting.
C-dog: I would have also sent a megaphone and a really loud recording of "rise and shout."
Bek: I have found that a teriffic solution to low-cost aunting is to mail each child $5 in pennies. In a box. Moms LOVE that!
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