I spent a glorious summer day yesterday ambling through a street fair in the Upper West Side. I stopped at Paper Source, bought myself a planner, soaked in the objectively perfect weather, and tried to stay off Facebook. It was an exercise in willful ignorance.
I want to write something honest. I want to uncork the bottle that Jeremy filled up. I want to stare out a window and do that legato slide from content to complex. I want to write something real, something major, something that doesn’t ice skate or dilly dally or dance across the surface of the stream.
Don’t panic: I don’t want this to become an infertility blog anymore than you do. It has been, is, and shall remain a blog about what ever random thinking I happen to be doing at the time. But at this current time, I just so happen to be thinking about infertility– specifically mine–so here we are.
I tried to approach this post from a literary perspective–I tried to weave in all the literary Toms–Sawyer, Riddle, and Robinson–that made an impact on me. It was a little trite. I’ve bonded with these characters (yes, even Voldemort), but our relationship exists on a page. They don’t really compare to my first and preeminent Tom. Such comparisons were hollow and ineffective because Tom Sawyer didn’t dig a grave for my lizards, Hercermer and Cheerioh. Tom Robinson (from To Kill A Mockingbird, trust me, it was confusing for me to disassociate when I first read that book in sixth grade), didn’t hold me for hours while I sobbed when our childhood dog passed away. And Tom Riddle certainly didn’t help me through bleary eyes, rinse Hufflepuff’s habitat out when it was her turn to go.
Here’s a visual summary of March 16, 2017:
The Absence of Joy
The teacher called from the front of the room
With no response, she finally looks up.
The students blink blankly back
Like cursors on a computer screen.
She filled in a bubble.
Joy was absent.
I’m not making some bold, feminist stance or anything.
It’s because of my broken uterus. Or fallopian tubes. Or ovaries. Or something. We don’t actually know, but something is misfiring and it’s not Jeremy. How boring. We’re never having kids, not as an active choice but just because kids won’t come. Maybe they’re afraid of what kind of mother I’ll be. I worry about that sometimes too. I take things real personal sometimes.
The two-toed sloth is slightly bigger than the three-toed sloth. It moves so slowly that algae has time to grow in its fur, which helps it camouflage with its leafy surroundings. It must crawl (slowly!) on land because it’s long, gangly legs don’t support its weight. They’re not lazy, they have objectives, but they’re gentle creatures.