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Sometimes I wish Zoe would magically behave like some mythical girl I imagine from the 50s–perhaps like how I imagine my mom and her siblings were taught to behave by my Nana and Papa. I don’t know how they actually behaved, but I imagine a lot of “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir” and looking adults in the eye and shaking their hands politely when the adults said “you look so nice!” or “you’re getting so tall!” I somehow imagine they never had to be told (again and again) to sit up, or to stop scowling, or to stop kicking the back of someone else’s seat.
But that’s probably not true. That’s what kids do, right?
And in general I’m thrilled we don’t live in the 50s.
I often think about how vastly different the culture was and my grandparents’ circumstances were from my own parents, and–somewhat less dramatically–how the expectations for parents and children are for my generation. Paradoxically I wish for the simplicity, respect, and determination to appreciate what you have and not waste so much of everything that I feel was characteristic of my grandparents’ parenting and my parents’ upbringing. But I realize that times were different and some of that leanness was born of necessity. They had less so they had no choice. We have more so we can afford to make poor decisions more often. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Sometimes I don’t know how to stop it though.
I read somewhere that moms today spend way more hours actually engaged in activities with their children than moms 50 years ago, despite the fact that more moms today have part-time or full-time jobs outside the home than did previously. Because that’s what’s expected of us. We have playgroups, we take our babies to music classes and sign language classes and playdates. My own mom, who was a stay-at-home mom at least until my sister and I were in school all day, doesn’t recall scheduling playdates with us and our friends. Friends would come over to play or we would be dropped off somewhere else. But that didn’t really happen until elementary school. We went to preschool. But we didn’t take weekend classes at the rec center when we were three. I’m making no judgment here whatsoever. I’ve signed Zoe up for and schlepped her to plenty of classes, some of which I thought she would love, and some of which I felt like I was supposed to bring her to. And certainly when your kid crosses the threshold where you don’t have to participate in the class, and you can sit on the sidelines and watch, what a relief to have a break! In recent years Zoe has said, “I wish you were one of the counselors at camp so you could stay there all day with me.” Um, don’t you get it? If I was going to be with you all day, I wouldn’t send you to camp. We would just stay home. I have to work. That’s why you go to camp. But I don’t say that.
Which brings us, naturally, to martial arts. A couple years ago Zoe attended a tae kwon do birthday party. She was a little scared and a little intrigued. Chalk it up to a new experience. The following year, she attended the party of the same girl (now a black belt) at the same tae kwon do studio. She loved it. She wasn’t scared. She was fearless. She said, “I want to take tae kwon do!”
I file that away and then notice months later there is a new martial arts studio in our neighborhood. We sign up for a two-week trial. It’s not easy, but it’s fun and interesting and Zoe’s on board. Of course the timing on my part was foolish. When we did the trial we were in the midst of a rec center gymnastics session and a preschool soccer clinic. And we were looking forward to a summer at the pool and more swimming lessons. Tae kwon do seemed like too much to add, so we didn’t.
Then, after a summer of successful swimming (which it turns out that Zoe’s much better at than soccer or gymnastics), the pool closed and our thoughts returned to tae kwon do. The people running this studio are smart. The minimum commitment is six months. You can also opt for 12 or 18 months worth of classes when you sign up. You can go once, twice, or three times a week. It turns out that it actually takes a while (or at least it has for Zoe) to get the hang of martial arts.
I was thrilled that Zoe showed interest in this. It’s so important for kids–and I think girls in particular–to have the strength and confidence instilled by martial arts. Zoe is active and athletic but also very girly and princessy. Her parents are conflict-averse. I emphasize compassion and kindness and politeness. Assertiveness has never been my strong suit. So I didn’t make her sign up, and it wasn’t even my idea. But I’m the one who’s made the commitment.
Martial arts is hard. The master who teaches her class is excellent, and a stickler for perfection. He does not reward kids who don’t get it right. And why should he? If you’re going to learn it, of course you should get it right. But did I mention it’s hard? It requires different skills than reading or writing or painting or making up shows or any of the many, many things that Zoe does well at and enjoys. It requires patience, diligence, a lot of repetition. Martial arts requires strength, agility, and amazing motor skills and coordination. For a five-year-old, these skills are still developing, sometimes slowly. So Zoe complains. When it’s time to go to class, she often doesn’t want to. She’s tired. But when she gets to class she usually perks up and has a great time. I often struggle with what to say or do to get her excited about going. She doesn’t understand or care about the money I’m spending on the classes or the commitment we’ve made and I’m sure not going to get into how I want her to be able to fend off attackers when she’s older if she’s ever in a dangerous situation. It’s hard to come up with a reason you should do something that you don’t feel like doing that’s not necessarily mandatory, like school or eating or bathing.
Recently she went to a day of camp at the martial arts studio on a day when school was closed. When I arrived in the afternoon, it was time for her regular class. She’d already been there for seven hours, some of which she’d been practicing moves and some of which she’d been playing and watching a movie. Apparently she was completely spent. And apparently I was totally unable to comprehend that, and deeply frustrated that she was refusing to participate in the class and just glaring at me. I had brought her the day before to a 50-minute private lesson there because she had said she felt like she was behind and didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing, after missing a couple weeks of class because of her surgery. During the private lesson she improved dramatically just over the course of 50 minutes. She was focused, determined, and awesome. When she wouldn’t go to class the next day and she gave up the opportunity to demonstrate what she’d learned and test for a stripe on her belt, I was so angry. So we went home and I fumed and she sobbed and I did not have my best ever parenting day.
She went back to class the next regularly scheduled day and was happy enough to go. I thought she did great and the master asked her to try to test for her next stripe, and while I thought she nailed it, apparently she didn’t quite, because he didn’t give it to her. I was disappointed, but she came off the mat smiling and I congratulated her for working hard. I asked if she wanted to go to class Saturday (which we don’t usually go to, but could since we missed several classes and should really make them up) so she could have another shot, and she said no. I asked her again later and she still said no. But she’s been practicing her form all weekend and her punches and kicks, so clearly she wants to get back on the mat and try again.
Part of the reason I so want Zoe to stick with this is that it’s difficult and it doesn’t come easy for her. I wish I had had the opportunity to do something like that when I was a kid. The most comparable thing for me was math, but I never got better and there was no joy there for sure. I never played on a team or competed in anything except intellectual pursuits. That’s a whole different post, but the point is I know this could be so good for her. But I don’t want to push her so much that we both dissolve into tears and fury. But I don’t want to let her give up just because she doesn’t feel like working at it one day. But maybe when you’re five your parents should cut you some slack? Or maybe that’s when you need to start learning to be strong?
Randy says when she does get her next stripe, it will mean that much more because she’s had to try for it again and again. That’s probably true. Until then I probably just need to take more deep breaths and not say anything. I should try not to push or pull. But it’s so hard.
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On Thursday night Barbara Kingsolver, one of my favorite writers, kicked off the book tour for her new novel Flight Behavior at the Washington National Cathedral, one of my favorite places. And I went with two friends and no children. What joy.
She read most of the first chapter of the book, which was completely riveting and made me want to go home and stay up all night reading it. Except for practical reasons I can no longer stay up all night reading and also I’m waiting for my mom to read her copy of the book so I can borrow it.
After the reading, an audience member asked Kingsolver how much of her own life experiences show up in her books. Kingsolver said she doesn’t write about herself, but sometimes moments that strike her will reappear in a novel. She and her husband currently live on and operate a sheep farm in Southwest Virginia. She had read a veterinary manual about lambing, in preparation for helping sheep give birth of course, and read about a method for reviving a calf who was born not breathing. The technique involved grasping the lambs legs by the feet and swinging the lamb around your head very quickly so the force of the air or spinning or something clears the mucus out of the lamb’s airway. Then one day she was called upon to employ this method, and she did, and it worked. Her husband, plowing a nearby field on the tractor, looked over and saw her doing this and stopped what he was doing. “He hadn’t read this particular manual so he had no idea why I was swinging a lamb around in the air over my head,” she explained. So when you read Flight Behavior look for the lambing scene.
Kingsolver, trained as a biologist, said writing a novel for her is “like doing an experiment.” She develops a hypothesis, then creates a plot to test it. Then she comes up with characters whose actions bear out the hypothesis. That’s the first draft.
“The real art,” she says, however, “is revision. I love revision.” Writing the first draft is like weeding a garden, or hoeing a row of potatoes, necessary but not that much fun, she explained. To go back and revise is fun.
“When you know the ending, you can go back and rewrite the beginning so they match. The beginning and ending throw light on each other,” she said. She writes hundreds of drafts of each book. “I could revise forever because it’s so much fun.” Tell that to any high school student.
Her insight that I most need to take to heart. When she’s writing, she doesn’t think of her audience. “I labor alone in a room not thinking of all of you. I do not think about what people expect of me. That would pull me off center from what I have to give. I think about what I have to give in the world. There are so many books out there, but no one has been me before.”
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I sent Zoe back to school today after her week at home to recuperate from eye surgery. She was so ready to go. She’s been for several days when she gets to go back. The surgical strips covering her stitches have fallen off. The bruising on her eyes has gone from purple to yellow to pink. The swelling has subsided. The stitches are still there–the doctor said they’d fall out in the next week or so.
I asked her if she was excited to go back and she said yes. She said “I have this idea that when I walk into my classroom everyone will come up and hug me!” I said that sounded like a nice idea, but that I wasn’t sure if everyone would hug her. I said maybe some people would be busy but some of her friends might hug her. She listed the friends she thought were likely candidates. I hope they hugged her.
Then she said, “for some reason E always wants to kiss me!” Oh? I asked if she didn’t want him to kiss her. She said, “no, I don’t want any boys to kiss me until I’m a woman.” OK.
On the way to school we talked about how she might respond if curious but not necessarily polite kids ask about her stitches or bruised eyelids. I imagine her classmates–who all made beautiful get well cards for her–will not ask rude questions, but other kids might. After we discussed that, I asked, “what would you say if E wants to kiss you?”
“DON’T KISS ME!” she shouted. I asked if there might be a calmer alternative. “I don’t want you to kiss me, E, but I’ll give you a hug,” she offered. I thought that sounded reasonable.
I will remind her when she’s 12 or 13 that she does not want any boys to kiss her until she’s a woman.
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Not unusual for a five-year-old, I know. And necessary and worthwhile, because that’s how you learn. But oh so exhausting for the parents.
Recently, about God. We were driving somewhere and Zoe asked something like was God real and if so where does he live. She asked if God has human friends. And she asked about prayer and why people pray. So we talked about God not necessarily being a HE but maybe a spirit who isn’t a man or woman. We talked about God living in your heart. We talked about how many people think of Jesus as their friend and they find it easy to talk to Jesus because he was human too. Her only really familiarity with Jesus was as a baby, so I gave a brief overview of the important teachings of adult Jesus. We talked about being thankful and about wanting good things for people you love and for the world, and how you could pray about those things or meditate. She launched into a confusing story about some kids at her art camp who were trying to meditate and got interrupted. It was a good conversation, and the subject didn’t really come up again.
Until today, when we were leaving the Virginia Scottish Games, held on a giant field on a very hot and humid day and both of us were a little overcome by the sun and heat. I was trying to encourage Zoe to drink some water so she did not get dehydrated. She said “maybe you should pray for me.” “Why should I pray for you?” I asked. She said, “so I won’t get dehydrated.” While am not at all opposed to praying for her, I said, “or I could just get you to drink that water and get you out of the sun.”
Tonight, after a big family discussion about anger and how to handle it, which is always a fun and relaxing bedtime activity, I fielded many questions about surgery. Because in case kindergarten wasn’t enough to worry about, surgery is looming six weeks later. I could answer most of the questions, based on her previous surgery. I played up the new stuffed puppy we already picked out who will be a treat after she wakes up from the anesthesia. I emphasized jello and treats she can eat after we get home. I said we could get as many DVDs form the library as we want. She said she hopes someone will send her flowers.
So we seemed to have all that settled and I’d said one more good night and gone downstairs when I heard “mommy! Is that thunder?” and of course the huge storm had chosen that moment to erupt. So I returned to her room and moved approximately a thousand stuffed animals from her rocking chair so I could sit there. She said I could leave once I was sure she was fast asleep. I threw another dog onto her bed, and she crossed her arms over her chest, clutching Ralph in one and Jenny in the other. Finally, she did fall asleep, to dream of something sweeter than surgery or thunderstorms, I hope.
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I am overthinking kindergarten. I know I am, but I can’t stop. Today I actually had this conversation with Zoe, apropos of her saying she wanted to buy lunch at school sometimes. I said, “when they post the lunch menu, we can look at it together and talk about which days you want to buy lunch and what healthy choices you could make.” Part of me thinks this is perfectly reasonable, and part of me thinks, CHILL OUT!
We have had so many conversations about kindergarten, some initiated by me, some by her. We have talked about teasing–which she is concerned about. We have talked about getting up early and getting there on time, which I know will be a challenge for our entire family. We have talked about pencils. We have talked about how long she will be allowed to check out books from the school library (1 week was my guess but I really don’t know). We’ve talked a lot simply about how many days until school starts.
I let Zoe stay home from camp today because she wasn’t feeling well yesterday. We went to the doctor yesterday afternoon because Zoe’s been complaining of stomach aches repeatedly in recent weeks, and she also had a rash and a sore throat yesterday morning. But of course by the time we got to the doctor her stomach and throat were fine. No sign of strep or any other infections. She has bug bites and sensitive skin. We’ve had some issues this summer with her saying she is sick and needs to come home and when she is fetched, at varying degrees of inconvenience, she is immediately well again. We’ve been trying to impart to her that malingering is unacceptable. And, for whatever reasons, we are still struggling with occasional accidents. And god knows I don’t want that to persist through kindergarten.
I just want her to be healthy. I want her to do well. I want her to be happy. I don’t want her to be teased.
And I realize I have precious little control over any of that. She’s become a big kid, at least compared to the preschoolers we see on every playground where she suddenly seems to have outgrown the equipment! Of course she’ll still be a little kid when she passes the 3rd, 4th, and 5th graders in the hall this fall. Hopefully none of them will knock her over. She’s her own girl. And it’s not like she’s been home with me all day since birth–far from it. But kindergarten is big and different and scary, at least for me. I hope it’s less so for her. I can’t wait for it to start so we can stop thinking about what it will be like and just live it. Ready or not, here we come.
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This morning while I was packing Zoe’s lunch she noticed that I was wincing and asked what what was wrong. I told her my stomach hurt. She said “I wish it was a weekend so we could stay home and you could lie on the couch and I could rub your belly.”
“Oh that’s so sweet,” I said.
“And I could lie on the other couch and you could rub my belly,” she continued.
“Why? Does your stomach hurt too?”
“No,” she said. “It’s just fun to rub your belly.”
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When I was a kid myself, fortunate to have a mom who was able to stay home with us or work only when we were at school, I used to think these horrible, absurd thoughts like, “why do people have children if they’re going to send them to day care all the time?” Clearly I was insane and I don’t know what inspired such craziness. Some of my best friends had working parents and would spend afternoons with babysitters or in extended day. But somehow I guess you think your experience is the norm and everyone else’s is the aberration, until you know better. Or at least that’s what I thought.
Now, as a working mom who also attempts to be at home a lot of the time with my child, I realize how complicated it is. Now, few people I know have the income to enable one parent to stay home all the time. I always imagined I would be a stay-at-home mom until I was a grown-up with a job and a mortgage. I knew then it wouldn’t be possible to afford our life (which is by no means lavish) on my husband’s income, and it wouldn’t be fair of me to expect him to support our family by himself. I also knew that I didn’t want to have a regular office job when I was a mom. I once had a (childless) boss who supervised me (then childless) along with several other women who had children or grandchildren. When parenting emergencies arose, he seemed less than compassionate. I vowed that I would not work for him when I had a child, and preferably not work for anyone who might scowl or scold me when I arrived late to a staff meeting because my child had am unexpected doctor’s appointment.
I launched my own business seven years ago so I could continue writing and editing for nonprofits, which I love; earn a living, which is necessary; and enjoy the flexibility of being able to make my child my top priority without anyone getting pissed off at me. And it’s worked out pretty well. My business has thrived, I’ve spent many amusing (and plenty of annoying) hours with Zoe, and I’ve always been able to take her anywhere she needs to be without having to ask permission. I’ve also put in more late nights than I care to remember finishing work that I didn’t get done during the hours she was at preschool or at my parents’ house or, yes, at part-time day care.
Still, five years into being a working mom, the specter of guilt still hovers nearby. I am confident that I am doing everything I can to be a good mom while I’m working as hard as I can to run a great business. But when I registered Zoe for kindergarten in June, and the registrar asked if I would be enrolling her in extended day, I said, “oh I don’t think we’ll be needing that.” When I did the math, I figured the hours Zoe will be in school will be about the same as the hours I had cobbled together child care this past year. So I’d make the best of it.
But sometimes you need to meet with a client after 2:41pm, when school is dismissed. And wouldn’t it be nice to get my work done during the day instead of at night? But I felt guilty signing up for extended day. I have friends whose kids are in child care 40-50 hours per week. I don’t judge. Their kids are lovely. But somehow it seemed wrong for me to leave my own kid at school for an extra hour or two. At the same time, as I’ve raced to pick Zoe up at camp every day this summer at 3:30, and struggled to fit everything in around that schedule, I was beginning to panic about the fall.
Today was the deadline for enrolling in extended day, so between client meetings I scurried over to the extended day office to register and pay and get it done. I was encouraged by a discussion I’d initiated on Facebook, my favorite parent support group, in which several working mom friends who live all over the country said how much fun their kids have in extended day and how it’s an opportunity for them to play and socialize and it will make me not stress about getting to school by pickup time. The thought of getting to totally enjoy Zoe when I pick her up instead of figuring out how I’m going to finish my work, return phone calls, and check emails, is appealing. And I am tremendously thankful that this opportunity exists. Friends of ours just moved from a school district filled with working parents that doesn’t offer any before or aftercare. Then today I read a column in the Post about how the lack of quality, affordable child care is a critical issue in our country–ignored by political candidates–and that it keeps many parents out of the workforce altogether.
It turns out I’m a damn good mom, even though, or maybe because, I am a working mom. I am thankful that I’ve created an arrangement that works for our family. I’m lucky that it’s worked out. And I know Zoe will be fine staying at school for an extra hour or two. Guilt be gone.
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A friend (who has already lost her parents) told me last night that she thinks we’re at the age when it is more and more common to start losing people. I struggle mightily with this reality. My mom’s oldest friend lost her husband on Sunday and my parents are with her today. This friend of ours loves poetry and she and I have exchanged poets and poems over the years. In thinking of her and feeling my own heart break for her and her son and her grandchildren, I found this poem.
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
~ e. e. cummings ~
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I was always afraid some big kid would pick me up and throw me into the water. I wore glasses and I couldn’t have them in the pool so I could never see much of what was going on. I was never very comfortable in the water. It took me several summers of lessons until probably the humiliation of being 3 or 4 or 5 years older than other kids in the class convinced me to learn to swim. My husband didn’t learn until I knew him.
Parents always want their kids to succeed where they have failed before. And you want to spare your kid whatever horribleness you might have experienced as a child, as much as it’s possible–and it isn’t always possible.
That is the context for our extraordinary pride at Zoe’s aquatic achievement this summer. As Dana Vollmer and Elizabeth Beisel (and of course Michael Phelps) slice through the water in the background, we have spent a heady few weeks watching Zoe GET IT. She kind of learned to swim last summer, with the help of some lovely young lifeguards at Woodley Pool, who succeeded when past efforts to get Zoe comfortable in the water had failed. A previous swim class she took yielded only “able to get in and out of the pool using the ladder” on the report card they issued at the end. And then last winter we joined the YMCA just so she could swim because she was so excited about it. But she hated the pool at the YMCA and the instructors were terrible. If anything, she regressed. And even the first day of summer this year she was clinging to us, refusing to let go of us or the wall.
And yet, she persevered. We rejoined Woodley Pool, which she loves, and she relaxed. We resumed lessons with the teenage lifeguards. We went to the pool several times a week so she could play and practice. And she really, truly got it. When we were on vacation in Lewes, Delaware, she swam in the Delaware Bay. When we returned from vacation she took the swim test at Woodley: tread water for 60 seconds and swim the 25-meter length of the pool without stopping. She passed with no trouble, granting her the privilege of swimming by herself in the pool, going in the deep end, and jumping off the diving board. She immediately wanted to try the diving board, and she tried and tried and tried until she made herself do it.
At the theatre camp she’s currently attending, they take the kids to a nearby pool three days per week. Today Zoe took the initiative of asking the lifeguard at that pool–who she didn’t know at all–if she could take the swim test to swim in the deep end there. He gave her the test–which was easier than Woodley’s, she said–and she passed and was the only kid able to venture into the deep end, which she did with confidence.
Next year we are definitely signing up for swim team. I was never on any sort of athletic team until I was an adult. I am so proud of her that she has these skills and this drive that I never possessed, and that she can enjoy herself and be safe in the water.
The other night when she passed and was in the midst of making herself jump into the deep end and attempting the boards, Randy and I were overjoyed. At one point Randy said “I think we should get her a treat. Should we go out for ice cream later?” I said, “she can have anything she wants! She can have a puppy!”
So we ended up at Baskin-Robbins, not at the animal shelter, but we are still very excited. Here’s some footage of her big night.
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Last night when Zoe’s foot was nestled in the small of my back and her elbow wedged into my neck, as we listened to the Banana Slug String Band for the fifth time, trying to drown out the sound of hail on the window and thunder in the air, I was thinking. What else was there to do? Sleep was not an easy option.
Among other thoughts, I was thinking about the appointment scheduled for this morning to begin testing for fertility treatment. After three years of trying to create a sibling for Zoe and only a miscarriage and two D&Cs to show for it, we realized that something needed to change. We didn’t want to give up. But continuing to do what we’d been doing seemed fruitless, and if you’ve ever been down this road, you know the fun diminishes rapidly. I’ve tried acupuncture, herbs American and Chinese, and supplements. I’ve taken all kinds of well-intentioned advice, and ignored some. What clearly worked like a magic charm for everyone else hadn’t done the trick for us.
And we’d already consulted a fertility specialist a couple years ago. He was rude and arrogant and supremely unhelpful. So part of me dreaded seeing someone else, given our unpleasant experience. But someone reminded me that our sample was very small. So I made an appointment. Then I postponed it for a week. They sent us a lot of forms to fill out. They asked me to call our insurance company, which covers pretty much nothing. They cover the cost of seeing a doctor to see if something’s wrong with you, and if it is, they will pay to have you fixed. But technically one’s inability to have a baby is not a medical problem that requires attention.
So every step I took slowly and consumed with apprehension.
I felt somehow like going to a fertility clinic was admitting defeat. Saying we’d failed at doing this thing that people are supposed to be able to do easily. This thing that everyone else in the world seems to have no trouble with, at least that’s how it appears when I feel like I’m being assaulted by an army of pregnant women every time I leave the house. I do have a few friends who conceived their babies through IVF. Of course I don’t think that they failed. They did what they had to do. But the fact that we’re at this point where I feel like we have to do something is maddening. I don’t want to have to make this choice. But I want a baby, and waiting around does not improve the odds. As our new doctor (who reminds me a bit of the actor Richard Schiff) reminded us when we met him, you really can’t think about the odds too much, because you’re either pregnant or you’re not. Zero or 100%. But when you’re thinking about treatment, you have to look at the numbers. At my age, the changes of getting pregnant during any given month are only 2%-3%. Turns out every month when you think you’re ovulating, you’re only sending out an egg–or at least a good egg-maybe half or two-thirds of the time. And you have no way of knowing when the good months are and when you shouldn’t bother.
The doctor said there’s no reason we shouldn’t have another baby. The fact that Zoe exists and that she was conceived naturally is the biggest item in our favor. But, as Tom Petty so eloquently put it, the waiting is the hardest part. So the doctor said he recommended IUI, which is a step below IVF in terms of invasiveness and in cost. None of this is cheap, for sure. And it all involves a lot of hormones and ultrasounds and blood tests and all kinds of things that you wish you didn’t have to do.
Which, obviously, I don’t have to do. No one is forcing this on me. But we want a baby. Zoe wants to be a big sister more than anything. She has long been so interested in pregnancy that we’ve predicted she will become an OB or midwife or perhaps a neonatologist. And I loved being pregnant with her. I want to be pregnant again. And I don’t want to be 45 when it happens. At the same time, we have this wonderful girl. As much as we all want a baby, when we are getting dressed at the pool, or going to gymnastics class, or driving anywhere, and I see families with more than one child, I realize how relatively easy we have it. Zoe can feed and dress and bathe herself. She can read. She can swim. We’re in a good place.
I was seven when my sister was born, to the utter surprise and delight of my parents. So I enjoyed being an only child for quite a while, as does Zoe, but I too begged for a sibling. I don’t even know what reproductive technology was available to my parents, but they just assumed they were lucky to have me, and that was that. I know we are spectacularly lucky to have Zoe. I don’t think it’s wrong to want more though. But having to step into this world of unknowns and procedures and calculating the odds seems so forbidding.
I had my appointment this morning. Everything was normal. Which is good. Next test is Friday. I’ve realized that the scheduling of this procedure will depend somewhat on Zoe’s school schedule, because the testing they do is all in the morning, when I am typically driving Zoe to camp. Obviously most people they’re treating don’t have to worry about anyone else’s camp schedule, and would give anything to have such a complication.
From down the hall I hear yet another round of the Banana Slug String Band. Evidently Zoe can’t sleep either. I heard her reading Mouse Tales. I heard her coloring pictures of princesses (ok I couldn’t hear what the pictures were of, but I went to inspect). I don’t know what she’s thinking about. I told her to count American Girls to help her sleep. Maybe I should try that too, or maybe visions of ripe follicles filled with healthy eggs ready to burst forth into fallopian tubes. Or maybe I should stick to sheep.
You Ask a Lot of Questions 