Note: The "Trooper" in question is not actually in the military. It's a metaphor, people.

October 29, 2008

Tick, Tock Maternal Clock

Last Halloween I said I would dress up as a Maternal Clock. This was after dressing as “Always the Bridesmaid” last year (photo at link above), and an “Old Maid” the year before. Detect a theme here?

I try to make light out of whatever emotional state I might be in. It helps make it more tolerable. So, yes, most of my emotional energy over the last few years has been geared towards finding my future husband. As evidenced by this blog and my previous year’s costumes, I have been able to find some humor in this journey. The ridiculousness of online dating, the miscommunications with guys you just met, the commiseration with other women all going through the same thing. It’s so over-the-top sometimes that you have no choice but to laugh.

But as each year ticks by, I am finding that my sense of humor related to one aspect of “singleness” is quickly waning - Having A Baby. Actually, at this point I can pretty much say I find nothing funny about it at all. Last year I was able to turn being mistaken as the mother of my friend's baby as something worth a giggle. This year, I can guarantee you that the baby wouldn't be the only one ending up crying in public.

When I turned 35 last December it was like someone removed whatever cotton was in my ears that blocked me from hearing the medical term “Advanced Maternal Age.” Now it’s everywhere and I wince every time I hear it. Apparently once you hit 35, that is what you are in the eyes of the reproductive medical world - nothing but an aging babymaking machine that should probably be put out to pasture before it starts malfunctioning and creating babies with horrible genetic problems. (Is anyone else out there getting this message??)

Yet my clock still ticks -- faster and harder. But instead of having a family someday being a wonderful thing to look forward to, it is starting to feel more like outright panic.

And it doesn’t help that so many of my friends and family are expecting their first or even second babies over the next few months. At this very moment I have two baby blanket knitting projects in the works and, if I had more hands and a contingent of child laborers in my living room, I could conceivably be working on three more. And when I take my knitting in public, which I often do, it is inevitable that someone will ask, “Are you knitting that for yourself?” as they eye my belly trying to see if I’m pregnant. My heart sinks just a little when I have to tell them that no, it’s for a friend who’s expecting.

Of course I'm happy for my friends and can't wait to see them become mothers. That isn’t even an issue. But with every “I’m pregnant!” email, comes a pang of sadness and a little panic. When will it be my turn???

And of course Wine Guy doesn’t get it. If I show any emotional reaction to this kind of news, I can see he gets visibly upset. And not for the same reason – obviously. In one fight or another on the issue, he has told me that I’m bitter. I’m sorry but I am repulsed by that word. It implies that my hopeful desire to have a baby and a family is nothing more than negative emptiness. But isn’t that only the case if he doesn’t also want to have a baby at sometime in the near-ish future? Well, you see where my mind goes on that issue…hence the fight that quickly follows (he denies that by the way).

But I am not bitter. Perhaps I am envious of my friends. That’s not wrong to say is it? I’m happy for them and I want the same. What’s wrong with wanting?

And to be honest, if I were 26 years old, I would enjoy my baby fantasies and relish my freedom today. But I am not 26 and my Advanced Maternal Age will eventually become just Age. It’s not a matter of opinion or preference. And it’s not something I find particularly amusing.

Needless to say, I will not be donning a clever Maternal Clock costume for Halloween this year. Instead my costume brainstorming consisted of me simply looking around my living room until my eyes landed on the Lucky Cat perched on the shelf. And Wine Guy is dressing as the houseplant that sits next to it. It’s funny I guess in that our costumes are so mundane, so everyday. Just like life I suppose. But I’m trying really hard to maintain that sense of excited hope for what might come in the next few years – hopefully in the form of a baby. Advanced Maternal Age – could you back off just a little longer, please?


October 22, 2008

Word Art Tells All

Sometimes you can find meaning or insight through pure randomness. That's why I love the website (but beware: it could suck you in forever).

After one year and eight months of blogging about my personal life, I find this randomly generated Word Art --
based solely on the words I've typed here -- oddly beautiful.

Check it out here
or below.

How does this sum me up? I'll have to stare at it awhile and ponder. Hm.


October 9, 2008

Dogs and Dating

So if Wine Guy and I were to break up, I guess I would still have a boyfriend in my dog. Actually, I guess that would make her my lesbian lover. Talk about a lifestyle change. Meanwhile, enjoy this video about dogs and dating that inspired such thoughts.


October 2, 2008

Doggie Valedictorian

I normally only write when I have something specific to say, but I can't stand knowing that such an negative-sounding post is still "headlining" my blog (see previous post for a real downer). So I am here purely to write something - anything - to bury it a little. Actually, I'm here to tell you that Mimi was right, I was definitely PMSing. I hate that excuse as much as you, but sometimes it really is true.

Not that there aren't problems. But I always seem to forget that EVERY relationship has problems. I am somehow very good at convincing myself that everyone else is perfectly happy in their relationships and because Wine Guy and I have some bad days (sometimes a few in a row), we are one big train wreck. Usually it takes opening up to some freinds, or even just listening to other's stories, to remind me that this is some ridiculous fiction I've created in my head. No matter how many times I have this realization though, I always manage to forget it. Oh well, better late then never. Again.

So I'm here to say that things are much better these days. However, Wine Guy and I are both well aware of the areas we need to work on and we seem willing to do the work to get there. That's about all you can ask for.

I will also tell you that we are one week away from our dog's "graduation" from obedience school. She has been a star student, just like her geeky mom. And of course I like to think that everyone in class wishes they had a perfect little mutt like Luna. She's learned every trick they could teach us and I couldn't be happier watching Wine Guy practicing with her at home. As much as he bitches and moans about her during his ceaseless teasing, he obviously loves her and is willing to do what it takes to make her a happy pet. I like to think that means he'll do the same for me and what will hopefully become our family.

And every once in a while we have these moments when I realize, holy shit, we ARE a family. We have our own language. Our own inside jokes. Our own rituals. Just the three of us.

Last night Wine Guy was teasing the dog by throwing a light blanket over her and watching her try to get out. Of course I protested the whole time telling him to stop. Eventually he threw the blanket over the dog and me, and then climbed under himself. There we were, the three of us huddled under the blanket, snuggling and laughing, showing Luna that it's not so bad under the blanket after all. I think, my friends, that is a family. Right?

And then he ruins it by telling me (for the 4th time in the last hour) the joke he insists he's going to tell at dog graduation next week when he thanks the instructors. It goes something like this, "I want to thank you both. I can't tell you how long I've always wanted a bitch who will go down on command."

Sigh. We can't have it all I guess.