Despite the seemingly obvious timing, this really isn’t a follow-up post to yesterday. Just some random ponderances after having a conversation with a good friend at work. M is kinda like the Scientist’s mom. Almost never angry, and certainly not outwardly so, gentle, generous, caring, one of the most genuinely “nice” people this planet has to offer. Her oldest child is the same age as me, so at times our conversations almost seem motherly, but at other times, they’re very much on equal ground.
M told me, in confidence, that she received the best news in the world yesterday for her Mother’s Day — she is going to be a grandmother. It is not public knowledge yet, and her daughter-in-law isn’t past the first trimester, so they don’t want people to know until then. M, however, is glowing, as this is her first grandchild. She is so full of joy that it’s spilling all over her beautiful face; what a wonderful thing! I’m ecstatic for her, and told her so as I hugged her tightly.
It made me think, though, about my own kids, and while I don’t spend a lot of time considering the future of their biological plans, I do know that for now, my chances of ever becoming a grandmother are pretty slim. The Ambassador and I just recently had very frank discussions about sex and the ramifications of it. I have never been anything less than honest with him; my admonitions on sexual activity have nothing to do with religious, or really, even moral backgrounds. I told him (as I told the girls) that he needed to wait to have sex until he was prepared to deal with -all- of the potential consequences. First up, of course, is the risk of STDs. That’s really not something one wants to consider when the romance, the lust, the heat of the moment strikes, but a nice bout of gonorrhea lasts a whole lot longer than even the best orgasm. Which leads us to the second, and almost more important consideration — pregnancy. Gonorrhea can at least be treated with antibiotics. But if a man gets a girl pregnant, his “say” in the matter ends there. If she chooses to end the pregnancy, it’s done, regardless of his desire to be a father. The flip side, of course, is that if she chooses to carry the pregnancy to term, unless she surrenders the child to adoptive parents, that man is financially liable for the next 18 years. 18 years is a long time. And while I was not trying to use “scare tactics,” I was also brutally honest with the Ambassador when I told him that if he knocked up a girl at age 16, he is financially liable right then. He blinked and nodded, a bit taken aback. Not that he was planning to rush out and have sex, but the words being set out there kind of set him back on his heels even further. The Ambassador’s current plan is to have a vasectomy as soon as he can find a doctor to perform the procedure. And here’s another point in which I am not a “usual” parent. I do not automatically dismiss that wish as childish or immature, I do not laugh and tell him that he will “change his mind”, and I do not tell him to “wait until he meets the right woman” as if he isn’t a complete person in his own right. I did tell him that for now, he will have a tough time finding a doc who will do it for him, considering his age, but at no time did I disrespect him by blowing him off.
The Artist has similar plans. She wanted a hysterectomy, but I explained that it is considered major surgery, and is not done electively. This news displeased her greatly, as she wants no part of motherhood either. When she and I had a conversation one night about sex, the Artist was her usual blunt, to-the-point self. She said, and I nearly-quote, “Having sex too early fucked up your life, Mom. You wound up giving up everything you ever wanted to do and be to raise us. No way I’m doing this. I want my life, and I’m not risking it.” I was stunned to hear the wisdom at her age, but then, the only conversation I ever remember having with a trusted advisor about sex was one time with my sister after I discovered and read her high school bio textbook. I was 6 at the time, by the way. With my subsequent introduction to sex and its intricacies, there really wasn’t any open communication, ya know? My parents sure as hell never spoke to me about it. Of course, they didn’t talk a whole lot to me unless I was in trouble for something, but that just fueled my desire to do things differently. The Artist has been quite vocal about the fact that she is not going to risk her dreams for the sexual satisfaction of some guy. Personally, I’m glad.
The Professor is the only one I really worry about. She can be insecure at times, and question and over-analyze whether a situation is “right.” (OCD, anyone?) I don’t want her to let some jerk take advantage simply because she is trying to overcome that inherent tendency to overthink things. But she’s a smart cookie, and I think she’ll be fine in that respect, really. My only real, genuine, deep-down worry about her is that she -may- choose to have a child. Her last appointment with her specialist involved the question of, “Can I carry a child?” which has never come up before. Her doctor’s answer was a hesitant, “Yes.” His explanation of the hesitance, along with my own research is that a person with Masto can have a tougher time getting pregnant, and then also has a higher incidence of miscarriage during the pregnancy, and almost always has an exacerbation of symptoms. The Professor is a very sensitive creature. The idea of her having to go through the pain and grief of miscarriage, quite possibly more than once, rips my heart out, and it isn’t even my pregnancy. I realize that we cannot bubble wrap our kids, and I don’t have any desire to do so, really. But if I could spare her that, I would. It just kills me, ya know? The weird coincidence that the only one of my Kellions that even remotely wants to consider the possibility of the thought of the notion of the idea of child bearing, is the one whose life would be infinitely easier if said idea never even hit the table.
I admit that while, if one of my kids -did- wind up making me into a “grandmother” that I would do my best to be the kick-ass-in’est Grandma ever, I cannot honestly say I have any real drive or desire to do or be that. I know that M and her husband have been hoping for this for years, and are over the moon at the news. But for me? Eh. Maybe it’s because I’m savoring the fact that I will finally have my own life, with responsibility to no one but myself. Selfish? Ayup. But I have owned that one before, and continue to do so. And while I am content with the notion that I will be in a “selfish place” then, I also know my own heart all too well. I will take one look at the squalling, snot-nosed, rank-diapered house-destructor, and I will melt like a goddamn sliver of butter on hot toast. I will see the Professor’s dark eyes, the Artist’s freckles, or the Ambassador’s grin, and that will be the end of me. My heart will belong to the little brat, and I will be forever a slave to its whims. I will bring him or her to my islands, teach her to make sandcastles, how to wind a mandevilla up around a post, in what order the ingredients are added for a margarita, which brands of flip-flops are best, (do NOT think that her first pair of shoes will not be Tevas, because they will be!), and how to gently graze a sting ray such that it swirls back around you in play.
But for now? I will sit contentedly back to contemplate my life of quiet solitude in the islands, and wait to see what happens next.
No, no, not in the usual ways that make you go, “Freakin’ DUH, Mick…next?” This is something that has made me a little self-conscious over the years, and I guess after reading another blog post that I hit, almost by mistake, I figured I’d confess. Now, let me say up front that I am not in any way saying even one negative word about this mom. She seems like a great mom, and my own brokenness does not in any way reflect on her, or any other mom that has sparked these feelings in me. Here blog post was merely the catalyst for my own ramblings today. It can be found here. Please take a sec to read, or even skim, her post, if only because my own post will make a lot more sense.
I don’t do it. My kids’ first tooth, first word, first steps, didn’t elicit a single tear. Their first days of school didn’t find me reaching for the tissues. I did not sniffle on my friend’s shoulder when they entered high school. None of it. I’m not sure what it is. I’m not a cold-hearted person by nature; I feel emotion, and I show it. But for whatever reason, the milestones of my children’s lives do not make me sad.
But never did I find myself misty-eyed over any of it. Excited? Yes. Proud? Definitely. Anticipating what comes next? Absolutely! But not wistful.
