Woman - to - Woman: Infertility

This will be the last Woman to Woman writing challenge for a while. Life's chaos is robbing the blogger coordinators of this every-other-Tuesday tradition of time and energy to keep it going. I WELL understand. I've run hot and cold myself with maintaining regular postings. So I wish many blessings to Lei as she moves forward with her house building project and resolving issues with her family> I say "wish you well" to Morning Glory as she fills her days with other pursuits. I may actually go back and write some posts on W2W topics that I missed when they passed through the first time. It has been a healthy thing for me to stretch my reflecting to articulate my thoughts, feelings and experiences on subjects I might not have otherwise taken on.

But as far as the "official" W2W goes, this wraps it up.

I'm hesitant to even begin writing on this subject, because my own infertility was a matter of deliberate choice, and therefore seems to have no legitimacy. We may feel compassion for those who seem to have been robbed by fate or the universe from having the sacred ability to bring forth life, but my experience has been there is not much understanding to be had for those who feel sad about it after they threw it away.

I had a tubal ligation when I was 21. My entire adult life has been one of seeing the moon season come and go with no chance possible for pollination. I have been alternately grateful and regretful about that. MOSTLY grateful. But there have been moments when I've wondered how the shape of our family might be if I had left things in God's hands rather than submitting to the surgeon's tools.

I well remember the day I met with the doctor to request sterilization.

It wasn't because I adamantly wanted no more babies. It was because I very much did, in a most irrational way.

Some women get cramps, headaches or mood swings during their cycle of menses. Not me. My body was built for birth and joyously went through the motions of preparing for a fertilized egg each month without a hiccough. My MIND however became a creature possessed. I ACHED for the smell of talcum powder and vomit. I craved the soft fullness of a gestating belly. I WANTED to be pregnant with a ferocious longing each and every month for about four days before every single period.

Keep in mind, I had two babies by the time I was just 19. I was in a disastrous marriage that was collapsing around me. I had no marketable skills and no clue how I was going to support the babies I already had. Getting pregnant again at that point in my life would have been sheer madness.

But I WOULD have. Oh, I had tried every form of birth control known to God. I'd hoped IUD would be a temporary solution - but both kinds I tried caused me to seriously hemorrhage. I tried pills and diaphragms and condoms and counting of days.

But the reality was that instead of getting PMS I became an absolute MANIAC on a mission to make a baby for those few days with all rational thought flying away with the wind. That scared the crap out of me. No matter how much I would convince myself the rest of the month that this was not the right time, I felt as out of control when I came into my season as a were-wolf at a full moon.

I could well imagine myself having child after child after child without the mental, physical, or financial resources to care for them.

Or, worse yet, I could not stand the idea of finding myself pregnant and regretting or resenting it - which I surely would have once the hormonal shift danced forward a day or two.

So I put an end to the madness. I allowed the doctor to cut my fallopian tubes and cauterize them - making darn sure there was no way any future egg of mine would find it's way to a soft uterine home.

I recognize this seems callous to those women who wish with all their might that they could conceive and/or carry a baby to term, that I had that ability and tossed it away so willingly. My heart goes out to the men I know and care about whose hearts have been broken by babies lost.

But being compelled to conceive can be every bit as heart wrenching as not being able to, I think. I opted for a saner, safer path for me. Have I regretted it? Sure. For four days every single month. All through my twenties, thirties and forties, I'd weep and wail and gnash my teeth that I couldn't have my heart's desire - a new little heartbeat keeping time beneath my own. I actually started dreaming of being a surrogate, carrying some other woman's fertilized egg, since my body adapted to pregnancy so well. I didn't really want to raise any more children, I just DESPERATELY hungered to be pregnant. Those were some weird dreams. But most days I KNEW, that for me sterilization was the right choice.

Babies deserve to come into a family where they are truly wanted and welcomed. I would have been like the old woman who lived in a shoe had I not taken matters into my own hands. I would have been bewildered, exhausted and out of all personal and practical resources long before I hit 30. So I made a choice.

Next week I will regret it again. Today, I am so glad I did what I did.

My heart goes out to the men and women I know who mourn for children never born, and I grieve with them for the babies in small boxes that could not stay alive.

I've known more than a few close friends who have walked this lonely road. I've seen emotions from heartache to resentment in their faces when they would see me with my own kids, so blissfully able to do what they could not. It's hard to know how to best be of support to them. But at least infertility is recognized as a painful, difficult trial in life. Hormonal addiction to conception is just too bizarre for words and most people find it laughable. It was never funny for me. I might have liked to have three or four kids spaced several years apart. But I could never take the risk of what my own mind/body response might bring.

As with all other W2W topics - links to what others have said on this same subject can be found at My Many Colored Days and Seeds From My Garden.

Coping With Grief

Today's Woman to Woman topic is on Coping With Grief. I have sorta dropped off the map with this writing challenge of late...too many other irons in the fire. When I knew that grief would be this week's topic I resolved to get back in the saddle and say a few things. But now that it comes time to post I find my feelings regarding more recent losses are simply too raw for public consumption. So instead I'll post a piece I wrote many years back. This was originally published in the journal Thanatos in 1996 under the title "Giving Sorrow Voice." (Fall 1996. Vol. 21/ No 3)Maybe at some point I will write of other things. But for now, this will have to do.

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What am I supposed to do with this reawakened aching? How can I put on the expected smiles when I see my older brother taking vows with his new bride? My brother’s first wife, Donna, died two years ago. She was only thirty-four. With her death, my illusions of safety in the world were completely ripped apart.

I felt so ambivalent when we first lost her. I was relieved to finally see her set free from months of cancer’s anguish. Yet, I was simultaneously outraged that she had been taken away. Donna was more than my “sister-in-law.” She was my friend. She was maid of honor at my own wedding. She was my confidant more times than I could count. We used to joking say that her husband (my brother) was okay, but the real reason I savored my relationship with their family was because of the fun I had with her. Since we lived several states apart, we didn’t see each other often. But through letters, phone calls and occasional visits, we kept the torch of friendship burning bright.

Then she got sick. The illness took her inch by painful inch. It was excruciating. There were days of bitterness, weeks of fury, months of pain beyond words. I hated that I was so far away and could not help her. I felt helpless and impotent. Yet, beyond that, what I hated even more was that there seemed to be no clear role for those of us on the periphery of the grief. While everyone rallied around Donna and my brother, no one ever saw how much I was hurting, too. In fact, I was expected to be one of the ones being strong and kind, always available to listen. I didn’t know who to turn to when my own breaking heart needed some listening to.

So I played the role that seemed laid out for me. My sorrow bubbled quietly inside when the final call came, saying it was time. I remained “strong“ as the family converged in Idaho to say goodbye, to witness Donna’s death, and to attend the memorial. As I went through the motions of assisting with the necessary arrangements, the hurt camped out in my soul like a bewildered vagrant, having no clear clue of where to go. In the weeks after the funeral, that same hurt would catch in my throat every time someone would ask “How’s Andy doing? We were so sad to hear about Donna’s death.” No one ever asked how I was doing. No one ever seemed to realize that part of my world had been shattered too.

When time marched on, and my brother found a new love in his life, the whole family was thrilled, myself included. He had been through so much anguish. It was wonderful to see him embracing life again. And yet, when the gilt-edged announcement of his wedding came in the afternoon mail, I suddenly felt the wind knocked out of me. Granted, it had been two years. Still, holding the invitation in my hand opened up the old wound all over again. Some corner of my brain started howling when, finally, I was forced to admit all the way to my bones that Donna truly is gone. Two years worth of stuffed feelings came rushing out with a vengeance. Every scrap of my being throbbed as tears streamed down my face.

I will attend my brother’s wedding, sincerely happy that his new life is blooming with abundance. But I’ve also come to realize I need to listen to and nurture my own aching heart. I loved Donna keenly. And love, by its very nature, is savage business. It leaves our hearts open and vulnerable to pain. Just because I was not the one to lose a spouse does not minimize the very real hurt that losing a dear friend brought me. I thought I was done with grief and mourning. Now I see how much I still need to address the emotions which have festered down deep for all this time. I need to bind up those wounds, but to do so I must first give them voice and validation. Only then can I truly move on and fully heal.

I will honor my memory of my sister-in-law and cherished friend with a wreath of Queen Anne’s lace which I know she treasured. Then I will begin talking about this with folks who’ve proven their grit by supporting me over and through other serious hurts. I will never forget Donna’s musical machine-gun laugh, her love of Christmas, or her passion for her cats. But I will come to terms with the loss of her more fully by genuinely confronting the impact that loss has caused in my life. I will no longer cripple my heartache by denying its legitimacy. It does not matter how long ago her heart stopped beating. Healing seldom fits into carefully laid out timetables. I wasn’t ready before. Today I am. Finally, I begin to fully grieve.

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To read what others have had to say on this topic, go to
My Many Colored Days and/or Seeds From My Garden.

Caring for Aging Parents

The Woman to Woman Challenge this week is:

There are many women who still have one or both parents living. As our parents age and move into their 80s and 90s, they often need a family member to care for them. Are you currently the caregiver for a parent? Perhaps you are the caregiver for a beloved grandparent. What have you observed through this process and how have you worked this caregiving into your family life? What difficulties have you encountered, and how have you resolved them? What has been successful for you?

I hesitated to respond to this topic….
How could I? Why would I?
But on further reflection, I decided I did have a thing or two to say.

I never had aging parents. My mother died at age 53 and my father died at 55. Their deaths both came sudden and unexpected, snatching them away from this earth in the very same week. Although divorced for many years, living in separate towns and not having spoken for quite some time – they died within days of each other. My father’s repose came on Dec 16, 1983 and my mom died a handful of days later, on Dec 21. It was a discombultating double whammy of grief when I was just 26 years old.

While the rest of the world was singing “Deck the Halls”, cooking a fat goose and baking mince meat pies I was helping my stunned siblings plan a funeral. For many years there after Christmas lights and baking smells conjured up images of death in my mind. To this day I still cringe every time I hear the song "Silent Night."

I wasn’t part of my dad’s service. It was done and over before I was able to get a flight out of the frozen Midwest to his Arizona town. I did help my sibs scatter his ashes later. But there was never any real closure, no real goodbye.

I did attend my mother’s funeral. That service taught me to despise the ritual of open caskets. That sallow faced corpse was not my mother. But it is the last image I have in my mind of the woman who gave me birth, and the picture of it linger in my brain still.

There was so much unfinished business between my parents and me. Truth be told, they could have probably lived to be the age of Methuselah and we would more than likely never have managed to resolve the old baggage. Ours had been a volatile household, a crazy kaleidoscope of laughter and nightmares. I left home at sixteen and never looked back, having only a few strained contacts with them after that. There had been so much water under the bridge, so many senseless wounds. Still, with their deaths it became clear and final there would be no more opportunities to apologize on either side of the hurts we'd lashed out one each other. There would be no resolution, no forgiveness, no settling into peace.

So I set my jaw and trudged on through the world, trying to make whatever sense of it I could. Throughout all the changes and transitions that were to come over the ensuing years I would sometimes wonder – what would my parents think if they could see this? Would they care? Would they approve? But there was no voice to caution me, encourage me, or even to tell me to figure it out for myself. Their absence shaped me in a way all its own.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn some important lessons from them both about caregiving.

When I was about nine my father's mother came to stay with my family for a few months. I balked when I came home from school one day to discover my previously private bedroom had been totally rearranged to make room for me to share it with my bratty younger sister so that Grandma could move into her room. No one had told me this was even being considered. I simply came home to find it was a fait accompli.

Once I got over the injustice of that, I enjoyed the attention I got from my grandmother. Still, the thick undercurrents of shifting emotion in our house were palpable. But nobody ever admitted out loud how difficult the whole situation was. As a result of that silence, it was impossible to ever seek out support. Ours was a family well accustomed to wearing many masks, painting on a charade of polite pleasantries on the outside so matter what conflicts lurked down deep.

I never did learn the circumstances that led to my grandmother coming to stay with us or what precipitating her leaving, which seemed to me as abrupt and unexpected as her arrival. Maybe there was talk about it that I was not privy to. As a child I had no power or influence, so I was not considered worthy of consulting. Perhaps the conversations were not clandestine at all...maybe I was simply so self absorbed that I was oblivious. Whatever the case, those events left a strong enough impression on me that when I had my own family I was determined we would have open family councils to talk about any decisions that would affect us all.

On the other side of my family was my maternal great-grandmother, Gertrude Young Kurtz, who lived to be 103. Throughout all the years of my life she lived with my mother's parents.

Grandma Kurtz had four daughters (not counting the one who died as a child.) My grandmother’s sisters would come to visit from time to time, but seldom shared in the responsibility of caring for their aging mother. I know there was sometimes resentment over that. My grandmother sacrificed her health, strained her marriage, and gave up many life opportunities out of a sense of duty to care for her mother. There were plenty of times she wished her siblings had been willing to help share the load. More than once I heard caustic remarks about the cross my grandmother had to bear - both from her own lips and those of my mom.

There's just no way to sugar coat it. The relationships between the women in my family were thoroughly toxic. Although seemingly capable and willing to offer comfort and affection to the boys in their brood, when it came to how mothers and daughters interacted in the generations of our clan, bitterness and belittling were served up with daily bread. My great grandmother could at times be quite dreadful to my grandmother. In turn, my grandmother chopped away at my mother’s self esteem year after year. Keeping on the family tradition, my mother dished out venom of her own to me. I’ve always said that God knew what he was doing when he sent me only sons.

More than once I have wondered, had my own mother lived, would I have been willing to care for her in her old age? I honestly don’t have the answer to that.

It’s one thing to go through the complicated business of shifting roles from the dependent child to the responsible head of household with a parent who kept you safe throughout your own period of weakness and vulnerability of childhood. It’s quite a different matter to find yourself in the position of taking on responsibility for the well being of a parent who repeatedly broke your spirit or in other ways caused insidious harm.

Yet I’ve seen families do it, and some do it quite well. I've seen miracles of healing take place in the final season of an aging parent who had been beastly during their own children's growing up years.

When I lived in Washington State I worked for an Area Agency on Aging – coordinating all the caregiver training classes across six counties. I met with hundreds of women and men facing the challenge of taking care of aging parents, grandparents or other infirm relatives. Some were from strong, intact families. Others were from fractured networks of kin that had committed crimes of all kinds on each other over the years. In every case, no matter what the past history, there were both poignant challenges and rich blessings for those who stepped up to the plate of assuming the caregiver role.

Later I served as Marketing Director for a fancy retirement community with an attached assisted living facility. There I met with family members to coordinate the move in plans for those who either could not or would not continue to live with their kids. We had many long, soulful talks about their reasons for selling their homes and moving away from all that was familiar to them.

I celebrated with the ones who had visits from children and grandchildren multiple times each week. I mourned with those who were alone in the world – either because they had never had children or were estranged from the ones that they did.

I’ve given much thought to issues of aging and what our responsibility is for our failing family members.

At times I've felt it was selfish and harsh when daughters or sons were unwilling to make needed sacrifices to care for aging family members, regardless of what the past history might be. I thought it was heartless and cold to stick someone away in some paid for facility surrounded by strangers to make one's own life flow more comfortably. But over the years I've come to understand that family relationships are complicated and diverse. What works for one will not work for another. I have no room to judge someone else for what they will or won’t do in this regard.

I've watched families agonize over concerns for the safety of elderly parents who insist on continuing to live alone. Who makes the decision when an older person should give up driving? Who has the right to intercede in how the senior chooses to spend their money or if they refuse prescribed medical treatment? At what point does a person's right to live independently in any fashion he or she may like give way to their family members' worry about the older person''s ability to meet their own daily needs?

There are no simple answers.

Now that I am the matriarch of my family I begin to plan which choices I may make if the fates should rob me of my body's health or lucidity.

Would I go to live with my kids or grandkids? I think not. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. This I do know for sure - if circumstances ever do lead to that EVERY child in any household I may enter will have a chance to voice the impact it has on them.

To read what others have shared on this same topic, check the links at Lei's blog over at My Many Colored Days and / or those listed at
co-host Morning Glory's blog over at Seeds from My Garden.

And if any of this touches a cord with you - feel free to share your own thoughts and add your link to the growing number there already. Even though this writing challenge has been named "Woman to Woman" I'm sure that ALL voices who might care to enter would be more than welcome.

Keeping Marriage Alive

This week's Woman-to-Woman topic has to do with marriage.

The challenge reads thus:

"Whether you've been married for 38 years, 8 years or are a newlywed, you've probably picked up a few of the keys to a happy marriage, one which is nurturing and continues to grow. Maybe your marriage has struggled, but you've found a road back to each other and have insights for those in similar situations. What would you say are the three most key elements in your marriage that keep the romance alive and the heart aflutter? "


There are many things I could write about. I've said before HERE how I feel about the man I'm married to.

But if I have to pick just three key factors that keep our love alive, I'd list these:

MINDFUL INTIMACY
POWER OF WORDS
DEAD PRESIDENTS & POWER

Now to explain.... (warning ...not TOO graphic, but may be a bit PG13. Sorry if this is just TOO MUCH information, but it's something I think matters that is worthy of talking about.)

MINDFUL INTIMACY: When most folks hear married people (or other romantically involved partners) talk about "being intimate" they immediately think that means sex. It can. Sometimes. But I think it is very important to build deliberate intimacy into the relationship that does NOT involve intercourse. Face it, no matter how loving or generous your intent when you start making love, there comes a point when the whole universe -INCLUDING your partner- becomes secondary to the ferocious building up torrent/release of sensation in your own body. At least that is how it is for me.

So we make sure we make time for lots of pleasuring touch that is NOT foreplay, but something to savor for its own. Being able to "pinch and tickle", give lots of deep, passionate kisses, body massage and experimenting with what each of us likes with no expectation for it to be leading up to sex can be incredibly bonding.

There is so much laughter, occasional silliness, sometimes quiet wonder as we explore just sharing ourselves with each other in cuddling, time together ways. Those times make it so that when we DO choose to have sex it's all that much richer, more mindful, more chosen.

Enough said.

POWER OF WORDS - We have this silly little tradition in which I relate any mundane, routine chore to being an expression of devotion. When I'm sorting sock I'll say to my man: "And WHY am I sorting these socks?" He'll tease me at first with some ridiculous answer like "well, it's better than chasing an aardvark!" I will put on mock outrage at that and insist he come up with a better answer. Then he will get a huge grin on his face and tenderly say "Because you love me." To which I will answer some variation of this: "YES, I sort these socks because I do love you. It means a lot to me to be able to help make a home that is comfortable for you, where you can come home secure in the knowledge of having matched socks. I may not be saving the world. But I'm loving you the best way I know how."

Pure mush? Yep. But this little "game" that we play reinforces for BOTH of us that we DO love each other, and that even in all the minutia of life - taking out the trash, sorting socks, picking up dog poop in the yard, washing the car, ANYTHING that makes our home more sane, more ordered, more cozy can be done as an expression of love. There is POWER in that. (And a lot of silliness, which is ok too.)

It keeps us from getting annoyed or overwhelmed with the chores. If we have a big enough WHY, the how just falls into place. It helps us live in a more deliberate state of experiencing and expressing our love in even the most mundane moments.

DEAD PRESIDENTS - my reference to money. So many couples I know have conflicts over cash, or the lack there of. We don't. Ever. Never have in 25 years. In our early years we were poor as church mice. Now we are considerably more comfortable. But no matter where we were on the economic spectrum we have scrupulously followed these rules.

1) PAY TITHING FIRST - no matter what. It is our way of acknowledging that ALL we have comes from the Lord, and that we trust Him to provide for our needs.

2) PAY BILLS NEXT - We are far from rich, but our credit rating is "super prime". On our signature alone we could get many thousands of dollars if some emergency were ever to arise. That comes from having regularly paid our bills on time even if it meant sacrificing other things. We have learned to separate needs from wants and we know which comes first in line.

3) SAVE FOR A RAINY DAY. Even though I grew up in Arizona, I know that eventually, it WILL rain. It helps to have a little nest egg set aside for emergencies. Besides, having grown up poor and known what it felt like to live on the fringe, that nest egg does plenty to provide comfort/security/peace of mind EVERY DAY even when it is not raining. I think this comes under the category of "When ye are prepared ye shall not fear."


Now, if there was anything left after rules 1, 2 & 3 THEN we could make some choices. There were plenty of years when we joked that the reason we didn't fight over money was because we had no money to quibble about. Seriously, it was just plain GONE by the time we took care of our prime directives. So be it. At least we knew the important stuff WAS taken care of.

But in recent years we've had more disposable income than we ever dreamed we would back when we were paupers. And the way we handle that is some extrapolation of the $50 rule.

What's that you ask? From very early on when I was a stay at home mom we BOTH acknowledged that we BOTH contributed to the household in meaningful ways even though he brought in income and I didn't. So we made a pact that each month he would get $50 and I would get $50 to spend ANY WAY WE LIKED with no questions, no complaints, no criticism, no eye rolling. There were times when I thought he needed another fishing pole like he needed a hole in the head. There were days when I'm sure he questioned why I was forever buying yet ANOTHER book when I had plenty sitting on the shelf I had not yet read. But it didn't matter. We were grown ups with the right to choose what was important to us without having to ask permission or worry about censure.

Now, over the years the AMOUNT of the $50 rule has changed substantially. At one point it was closer to $5. Now it is bigger. But the amount really isn't important - that just depends on any given couple's financial means. The key principles are that we are TOTALLY honest with each other, don't "SNEAK" or hide purchases and give each other room to have preferences, desires, etc that make no sense to our spouse. (My husband is a sucker for kitchen gadgets and other wonder items sold on TV infomercials. I spend lots of money for things that never "SHOW" in the house, like getting massage or going to trainings or retreats.) We are DIFFERENT in what we value. But that's ok. He and I BOTH contribute to our family and we BOTH should be able to benefit from our means - that was true when I had no financial income, it was true when he made way more than me and it is still true when I earn more than him.

We don't fight over little pieces of paper with pictures of dead presidents. Our love is just too important for that.


There are plenty of other things which keep our magic going. I've mentioned a few of them in my comments to some of the other entries to this topic.

The bottom line is that keeping love alive is a CHOICE, not a matter of luck or having been exceedingly wise in choosing the perfect person. We are all married to human beings therefore, like us, they are imperfect. But we can choose to focus on what we treasure rather than what we deplore. Sure, I wish he wouldn't leave his dirty socks in the middle of the floor. But I'll keep picking them up, keep washing them and keep sorting them into pairs - NOT because there are no Aardvarks in this neck of the woods. I do it, because I really, truly DO love him.

Co hosts Lei over at My Many Colored Days and Morning Glory at Seeds From My Garden have link lists leading to what other women have written on this subject.

Cool Quotes

This week's Woman to Woman challenge asked bloggers to name a favorite quote and what it meant for them. I finally settled on this one by Ralph Waldo Emerson:

"To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better,
Whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived
This is to have succeeded. "

We live in a world that gives such awful distorted messages about what it means to win, to get it right, to succeed. I think there is tremendous value in standing apart from all the emphasis on shiny things or popularity or a specific body fat ratio to simply allow ourselves to be present to all that is good, all that is possible, all that is worthy in this world.

There is so much badness, coarseness, depravity and danger. But there is also tremendous beauty and loveliness of spirit. Emerson's words remind me that I can turn my face and my focus to that goodness and embrace it with a vengeance.

Another one that I particularly like is:

"Resolve to be tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, tolerant with the weak, and forgiving with the wrong, for sometime in your life you will have been all of these." (This one has been attributed to various sources, included Lloyd Shearer and Robert Goddard. I honestly don't know who said it first, but I LIKE it just the same!)

There's certainly no guarentees for old age, as is emphasized by the fact that far too many of my pals never made it that far. But still, the words ring true.

We're all just doing the best we can to get through this crazy old life with a degree of grace and smiles, even when we fumble. Shearer's words remind me to take a deep breath and cut some slack to those who may frustrate or annoy me.

There are so many other good quotes - I could go on and on with tales of how they have comforted me, lifted me, challenged my thinking. From scripture verses to song lyrics to ancient Chinese probverbs, a well turned phrase that is powerful enough to last through the ages is a sacred gift to us all.

Powerful Quotes

This week on the Woman to Woman challenge people are writing about special quotes that are meaningful to them. I may share some words on this topic later... for now I would encourage any of you who pop in here to give a look to the LINKS of what others have said and consider dropping in one of your own (even if you are male!)

Having it All

I’ve been reading several of the links in the "Woman to Woman" writing collaborative on the topic of “Having the Latest Baby Everything” – referring to parents thinking they have to have every newfangled gizmo and doohickey for their babies/children. It just so happens I’ve been to a couple baby showers recently so I’ve had opportunities to shop for infant gear and to observe what things garnered the greatest oohs and ahs, so I’d been giving some thought to the subject anyway.
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When my first son was born we were living in abject poverty. Having anything beyond the basics was never even a consideration. By the time kid number two came along there was a little more wiggle in the budget, but my heart was still far too pragmatic to care for most of the bells and whistle accoutrements of babydom. But now I am a grandma. I have considerably more disposable income than I did when raising my own brood. So I have, on occasion, taken great pleasure in acquiring fancy or fun things for my progeny’s kids. Yet I will admit to being more than baffled at some of the MUST HAVES that many new mothers insist they surround their infants with.
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I never had a baby monitor or a bottle sterilizer or a Baby Einstein video and somehow my sons turned out just fine. That’s not to say those things are evil, or even entirely frivolous – I just don’t see them as anywhere close to being essential. When it came to toys, my kids would usually rather play with the box than whatever came in it. If I put them on a blanket with a few wooden spoons and a pan to bang on they were happy.
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I think most baby things are like pet products. They are created and marketed to be attractive to the person spending the money to buy it rather than the actual end user.
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I recently spent an obscene amount of money on a couple Polo outfits for my youngest grandson’s second birthday. Part of me felt guilty at the time that I was getting hooked in to that whole fashion madness that I am generally dismissive of. But they were pretty darned cute. Will the young one care? Not a bit. But his daddy, who grew up in yard sale finds and hand-me-downs, does.
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I had a conversations with a couple other women recently about the whole issue of blatant consumption of unneeded products – whether it be too many shoes or excessive toys for kids or owning all the latest electronic gizmos or having a garage so full of STUFF you end up parking your car on the street. I see no sin in abundance. I believe it is ok to have and enjoy nice things. However I think we all can benefit by taking a good hard look at our patterns of consumption and the impact our buying/owning/using has not only on our planet, but on our own hearts.
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Too often we turn to STUFF to comfort, to distract or to make us feel worthy. Too often we give people we love THINGS to demonstrate our caring rather than doing the harder work that takes more time of truly connecting.
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I see nothing wrong with having toys or more cute outfits than are absolutely essential for survival – whether it be for my baby or myself. I DO see something wrong with getting so caught up in the “have to have” syndrome that I become less willing to share with others, or more driven to work outside the home to provide a cushy lifestyle.
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I believe that families, societies and the world benefit tremendously from having a parent put HOME as their primary responsibility. So often I hear people say “well, it would be great to stay home with the kids, but we just can’t make it on one income.” That may be true if “making it” requires large homes, cable tv, meals in restaurants, and new toys and clothes throughout the year. I acknowledge that there are many moms of young kids that truly do need to work to help support their families. But I grieve for the many parents – both moms and dads – who sell their lives to employers to give their family STUFF rather than being present in the home.
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I read an article in Ensign magazine some time ago that spoke about the Mormon pioneers crossing the plains. They said that when the wagon trains and handcarts came to the rocky mountains many of those folks found they were carrying too much load to make it, so they regretfully left large heavy items all along the path. There were clocks and furniture, fine china, and musical instruments scattered along the path from Colorado to Utah. People sacrificed their beloved heirlooms to get themselves and their families to Zion. But no matter how much they weighed, no parent EVER left a kid by the side of the road to lighten up a wagon or hand cart.
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Today, however, we seem to have our priorities backwards. Too many people are metaphorically leaving precious babies by the side of the road as they chase after worldly acknowledgment or STUFF instead. Working long hours at high power jobs does provide lots of fine and comfortable things. But at what cost?
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I don’t say this as a rebuke. I am far from being the perfect parent and I have plenty of areas where my own values and behavior could stand some polishing up. I say this as an observer of families and society. I think we need more loving hearts in homes doing the unglamorous work of wiping noses and butts, helping young ones grow up feeling secure and loved than we do shiny things with name brand tags. I think if we can provide some blocks and good books and keep the kid covered up from the elements, that is sufficient. If you have the resources to do more - great, enjoy it. But the whole idea of having to have NEW everything is troubling to me. I think it sets a dangerous pattern. I think we are ALL better off when we share, loan, pass on our stuff - not just because it saves money, but also because it builds community when we collaborate with our material goods rather than compete.
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A recent Time Magazine had a great photo gallery comparing what people from different countries eat - showing families from around the world with a week's worth of food set before them. It would be interesting to do the same sort of thing showing what we each own, wouldn't it?

I recognize that on more than one occasion I've been a bit condescending with judgment toward those who I thought were overly materialistic. Who am I to say what tools or toys can be or should be of value to someone else? Lately I am trying harder to curb that tendency within me, to be more respectful of our differences, to give my sisters some grace. So enjoy that exersaucer and Baby Einstein video. So long as we all remember what is really important - the BABY - not the stuff, it's all good.

To read what others have said on this same topic, go HERE.

ON AGING

American rocket scientist Robert H. Goddard has been quoted as saying:
"Resolve to be tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant with the weak and wrong...because sometime in your life you will have been all of these."

I like the quote. Yet in all my life I've never imagined that I would ever be old. I just couldn't picture it.

My mother died at 53. My father died at 55. I was in my early 20’s when I became an orphan. Somehow in my mind, mid fifties became a logical lifespan to me. As a young woman, those years seemed many, many miles away.

However, time has shifted and seasons have passed. I will turn 50 this October. As I am fast approaching the ages my parents were when they met death, it feels very surreal to me that I could be so close to the end of my wick. Holy Moses, I'm just BEGINNING to get this life thing figured out.

Obviously, I have no crystal ball to know how long I have to walk on this earth. I’m in reasonably good health. (But then, so were they.) One day my father was alive, hammering new shingles on his roof. He went to bed as full of piss and vinegar as ever, then woke up dead. My mother was having a surgery. It was serious, yes, but fairly routine. She never made it off the table. They say no single thing really went wrong. She just never came back again. Those events permanently marked in my mind that there are no guarantees...we can be here one day and gone the next with no preamble or warning. They also made me determined to live my life to the fullest each day with no regrets or words left unsaid, because I just never expected to have all that many of them.

When I was a little kid, I couldn't wait to be "all grown up". I would proudly tack on the "and-a-half" to my age just as soon as I could justify it. Each rite of passage of crossing over to maturity seemed like a special prize to me. Yet as I emerged into a stormy, rebellious adolescence, I began taking vast chances with my mortality, acting out in extreme ways, saying I didn't care if I lived to see thirty. Sadly, many of my compatriots from those wild and turbulent days did not. How I came through it all relatively unscathed is a mystery to me still.

My early twenties were spent in a trainwreck of chaos. At some point I reached an epiphany that allowed me to turn things around and climb out of the darkness. Gratefully, my thirties were a time of calmer, safer, saner days. There was much effort and striving, of nesting, achieving, sorting out. Life was unquestionably better then, but there was still a degree of reverberation in my emotions and my spirit as I wrestled with making my peace with the past.

It wasn't until my forties that I really felt I began to bloom.

When I hit forty an artist friend of mine created a beautiful card for me...I've still got it around here somewhere although right now I'm not sure where. On the front of the card there is a black silhouette of a woman running with delightful abandoned down the side of a very steep pointed hill. Her arms are outstretched and her hair is flying. It's a great image. The joy and satisfaction just seeps from the picture.

Then you open the card up and the inscription reads: "FINALLY! You are OVER THE HILL!"

I loved the metaphor. For me, coming of age into my forties meant being done once and for all with all the struggle to climb up the life mountain of self discovery and drive to prove myself. Days of graduate school, child rearing, entry level jobs and so many other life battles were finally behind me. I had loved raising my boys and had enjoyed my years as a stay-at-home mom. But I welcomed this new time when I could fully participate in the world in new ways.

Being "middle aged" meant I had earned the right to embrace my opinions, preferences, beliefs and desires with no apology. I never had to worry again whether others thought they were cool or legitimate. No longer burdened by other people's ideas of fashion or music, politics or housekeeping, I was done with agonizing over my path. I was comfortable in my own skin and ready to dig deep into the life I had chosen.

Because I had kids so young, both my boys were emancipated (geographically anyway). My forties were a time when I could travel freely and focus on career with new dedication. I had more time and energy to get involved in causes that mattered to me. I was more financially secure than I'd been in the past. Best of all, I could rediscover my husband as partner more than co-parent. That was a revelation to me. We had some grand adventures, a few horrible heartaches, and a lot of sweet days of bliss. I loved my 4th decade. It was a sweet, juicy time to be savored in my life.

And now the curtain is about to close on those years and I will begin a new season - my fifties. Already I am starting to see that this season will have some tough lessons. Coming to term with loss is inevitably a big part of later years. Already I'm finding I attend more funerals than weddings. There is no doubt in my mind that the next few years will bear more of them. I can see it coming as surely as the trees dropping their leaves in the fall.

My body will change...sooner or later the moon season will matter less to me; My skin will grow thin. My hair will get coarse.

And if I should live even beyond my fifties - outlasting my parents by decades or more, what then? Will I have health? Will I have enough money? Will I be a cranky old biddy or a serene matriarch? It's anybody's guess.

How will I face my next season? What will I be like as an old woman? I really can't say.

I've always maintained that it wouldn't matter how old I got, so long as I was loving, learning, and laughing along the way. But I'm pragmatic enough to recognize that days when doctor appointments and hope for a proper bowel movement take most of your energy can make savoring life a challenge for most anyone.

Many of my friends now are dealing with caring for ill, elderly parents. I never walked that path. Some days when I visit families dealing with dementia, diabetes, oncologists and proctologists, I wonder how our family would have coped. I've heard it said we never get given greater burdens than we can bear... maybe the universe knew that wasn't something for our brood to contend with. But without having crossed that bridge with a parent, I haven't a clue about how to do it for myself.

When I look into the faces of some of the elderly people I know, I see the struggle with failing bodies, failing finances, failing memories, and it causes a catch in my breath. I hope that the next ten or twenty or however many years I have will be good ones. I recognize there is bound to be pain and difficulty to be sure. That's part of life. But I'm crossing my fingers and toes and praying with all my might that my sense of self will remain strong, my ability to contribute will continue, my chance to connect in meaningful ways will keep expanding even as my vigor begins to fade.

My greatest fear in the world in terms of what I anticipate for the years to come is not death or even disability - but far more frightening, the possibility of losing my beloved. My husband is 12 years older than I and has a few health issues even now. That man is my life, my soul's very breath. I cannot imagine a world without him. I shudder to think of wearing the title of widow. So I mostly try not to think of it at all. And yet...the possibility that it may be some part of my future is something I have considered more and more in recent years, usually with dread.

In most respects, in my mind growing old means coming to terms with loss and letting go... letting go of my youth and some of my dreams. Letting go of my belief that things will keep getting better. Letting go of some of the people I've loved. I see it as a season of coming to terms with grief on a much more regular and intimate basis than the few kamikaze grenades I've had to deal with thus far.

I hope I can go into my fifties and further with some peace and pleasure. Right now I feel like a skittish swimmer standing on the edge of a pond, slowly, carefully, filled with apprehension, daring to reach across to just stick my toes in. I'm not sure what it will take to give me the confidence to just plaster a grin on my face and dive in with abandon as I did in my forties. I'm feeling cautious with myself. I am nervous about what's around the bend.

I want to hold on tight to all the love and strength and opportunity that I have in my life now. I'm not ready to give any of it up just yet. I'm like a little kid being told it's about time to go to bed, but instead of going quietly I'm desperately, defiantly pleading for just five minutes more. I'm not ready to be old.

Yet my sweet husband just laughs at my reticence. He says that rather than grow old together he will go first, blazing the trail for me, and then reach back to bring me along, showing me the ropes. Just like when we've gone hiking through snow drifts together, or bushwhacking in the deep woods...he'll cut the path to ease the way for me. The trail will be rough going in spots. But the vistas and views along the way will make the journey worthwhile. So long as I can continue to hold on to the back of his shirt, I know I'll be just fine.

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For links to what others have said in the woman-to-woman conversation on aging please visit Morning Glory of Seeds From My Garden or Lei of My Many Colored Days.

Woman to Woman

Lei has organized a writing exercise for women bloggers. She is calling it Woman to Woman. Basically she and another blogger friend have put their heads together to set up a schedule to introduce a new topic to write about every other Tuesday to prompt other interested women writers to share their various points of view.

The topics planned for so far include:

3/13 Aging

3/27-Handling children under age 5 at funerals, weddings, concerts, theatre, church and such

4/10-Parenting/grandparenting difficult personalities

4/24-Enduring health problems, either your own or a child's

5/8-TIPS AND TRICKS Getting the family together

5/22-Getting advice from your peers rather than your parents

6/12-Pressure to have the "latest" baby everything

6/26-Share an important quote and what it means to you

7/10-TIPS AND TRICKS Keeping your marriage alive

7/24-Trying to be something/someone you are not

8/14-Dealing with aging parents8/28-Learning to say "no"

9/11-Overcoming the "people pleaser" syndrome

9/25-TIPS AND TRICKS facing your parenting fears

10/9-A book review TBA

10/23-Dealing with grief

11/13-Being single again

11/27-Infertility

12/11-addictions

I doubt I'll write on them all - but it seems like a valid way to explore some interesting topics and get to know some other writers in the process.

Besides the essay I've started on Aging, it's also prompted the beginnings of a fiction short story that I'm enjoying discovering. Don't know how far I'll take this piece, but working out the words for now is a soothing, rejuvenating process.

I may never be a great writer, but that is of little matter to me right now. I don't have to be profound or eloquent ...I just appreciate the chance to explore my own voice. Writing is something I've done for as long as I can remember as a means of sorting out my thoughts and feelings. Just in the last year or two I've thought about taking it more seriously. I have a framed picture in my office that says: "Use whatever talents you posses. The woods would be very silent if the only birds to sing were those who could sing best."

So I will keep writing, poking away at words. I have no illusions about their merit. I'm more concerned with learning to be satisfied with the PROCESS than picking apart the product at this point. I will learn as I go. Who knows? If I write stuff for most, if not all, of the woman-to-woman projects a lot of it may sound like crap. But a piece or two may come through to shine. That would be a nice thing.

The thing I've discovered about mastery in most any area is I can only get there by tolerating my own mediocrity along the way. Not every effort is going to sparkle. But if I just keep at it, open to feedback, taking it's measure from time to time, I WILL get better. So I'll give it a shot.