The environment at my sister's place is decidedly different. For one thing, she has space. And there is a child running around. My sister and I are the same age, and judging by the woman at the drycleaner who asked me how my little girl was doing, we must still look an awful lot alike. And yet psychographically we're opposites. Earlier in the week kids from down the street streamed into the house for a play date. Some friends are staying at my sister's as well--they announced last night that they just got pregnant. I fear the pheromones. Fear that they will infiltrate my system.
Conversations ensue that I cannot participate in: (In the Toureg, driving home from Whole Foods: Brother in law speaking to his pal) "So, Jeff, think you're gonna spring for the Bugaboo?"
"A grand seems pretty steep compared to the others."
I think to myself, who would name a car a Bugaboo? But as I continue to listen, I realize they are talking about strollers.
(Sister, on the phone with her friend, who just called.) "Hi Hun, how's it going? ... You need what? ... When? ... Oh no problem; we're having dinner over here, but I'll just give you a quick prick." (Hanging up the phone). "Selma's on fertility treatments and needs a shot, like, now. We'll just duck out and be back in a minute."
When did my sister become comfortable with plunging a needle in someone's ass? When did she memorize every song in Really Rosie? Where have I been all this time, not even thinking about what it might be like to be a mother? So many women have made this choice without question. Women with lives.
I think of the women from social services who come to the house because my sister fears my niece's speech is delayed. They give her things and see what she tries to do with them. She can put beads on a string, but not say two words in tandem. They say she's a smart girl but is simply not ready to speak functionally. I wonder why they can't come back to the house and sit around me with their clipboards and throw scenarios at me, determine why I'm delayed at motherhood.
I imagine the session: One hands me a breast pump: "Do you know what this is, Jory? What do you think of when you hold it?"
"Pain. I think of pain."
Another one says, can you repeat after me? ... "episiotomy," "five a.m. feedings," "good school district" ...
I stand there with my mouth open while they take notes. Each word in itself means nothing, but together the phrases are unspeakable.
One asks me: What would you do if you had no choice? Would it kill ya?
I look at her and say, "No, I suppose it wouldn't."
Another looks up from her clipboard and says: Is it really all about YOU? No one else? What else do you plan to leave with this world? A freaking blog?
I insist: "No! I'm not a bad person! I want to leave much more than I started with!"
"Then why haven't you even THOUGHT of having a kid?"
"I have! I have! But she's not just a regular old kid."
One of them clucks her tongue: "Oh, it's a girl is it?"
"Yes, and she looks just like me. She is me; I expect the same things from her. And she's just a little kid!"
"Get over yourself!" One of them yells at me, marking up her clipboard furiously. "Quit thinking you're doing the world such favors."
I close Outlook, then power down the computer. Baby steps.