Hence, Fourth
Eyebrows raised at the news, they respond
with exclamation points in their throats.
Unspoken better-you-than-me’s mingle
with prejudices uttered weeks before.
“Yeah, we need a van,” I say, addressing
the most obvious of the changes to come.
“So if you know anyone selling, let me know.”
But I’m not sure they hear: They silently question
our sanity, our judgement, our convictions,
our ability to keep our selves to ourselves.
“So you’re gonna have four?!” I hear.
“Well, that’s what happens after three,” I laugh,
“if you don’t stop.”
© Julie Ann Cook, 2010.
First Published in Love Like Weeds (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2013).
Some things never change…
A friend of a friend recently extended a gracious welcome to me. I spent the afternoon at her home with some other ladies. Get a bunch of moms together long enough and, whether they’re initially familiar with each other or not, inevitably the conversation will take a turn to pregnancy, labor, and delivery. This was no exception.
Raise your hand if you find such conversations painful and awkward.
With my history of less-than-ideal birth stories, this introvert withdraws further than usual. No one wants to hear stories of the panicked deliveries that resulted in premature births or the premature rupture of membranes at 14, 18, or 21 weeks that caused the losses of three babies. I have no problem sharing my story in appropriate context—as anyone who knows me can attest—but I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer either. So, as their conversation rolled on, I kept quiet.
Eventually, though, the talk turned a bit to children, and then came the question, “Julie, how old are your kids?”
“Sixteen, fourteen, eleven, and four.”
Then, someone chimed:
“Don’t you have cable?”
Even though I caught a glimpse of it coming and had fielded it plenty of times before, I was still knocked off balance. Witty-In-Hindsight Julie might have commented, “Actually, no, we don’t have cable. We find each other’s company to be more fulfilling” or “Cable? Where do you think we learned our moves?”
“Cable? Where do you think we learned our moves?”
But socially awkward Caught-In-the-Headlights Julie opened her mouth, and out fell, “We actually lost three in between.”
If you’re ever looking to kill a conversation, folks, bring up baby loss.
Sure. Fire.
I felt slight consolation in the fact that maybe now I wasn’t the only one in the room feeling slightly uncomfortable.
Tired Comments
The comments started about a decade ago as we anticipated the birth of our fourth child. I was thirty and a little bit overwhelmed with our three boys, six and under.
- “Do you know what causes that?”
- “Will this be your last one?”
- “Are you trying for a girl?”
- “I don’t know how you do it! We got our boy and our girl, then snip snip!”
- …and the aforementioned…”Don’t you have cable?”
Every time they’re uttered, I tense up and squirm. Anyone who has more than 2.1 children has probably heard them or some derivative. Yet their prevalence doesn’t make the comments any less tasteless. Their ubiquity makes them no more clever.
We live in a culture of “tolerance” and “non-judgement.” At least, those are the talking points. But neither hold up to the bias-betraying moments when these bits are dropped. Maybe the culprits think the parents of “big” families are irresponsible, incapable of figuring out “family planning,” or simply crazy. Maybe they’re actually attempting to mask their own envy or their second-guessing of their decisions to put finances before family size. Whatever the reason, let’s say it once more for the people in the back:
It’s inappropriate to joke about anyone’s procreation …or lack thereof.
It’s insensitive to ask if a parent prefers or is hoping for one gender child over another.
At best, it’s tacky to comment on anyone’s bedroom habits.
And unless an individual brings it up on his/her own, you probably shouldn’t comment on the number of his/her children, birthed, conceived, or not.
Listen to Cousin Violet and remember
The Many Flavors of Insensitive
With our family dynamic, I land in the line of fire of a broad array of inappropriate commentary. In addition to the “big” family comments (and I’d like to say, I really don’t feel our family is large at all!), I also regularly get to dodge or be bludgeoned by commentary or conversation insensitive to our history of baby loss and what seemed at the time to be a kind of secondary infertility. It’s everywhere. Holidays are a minefield. Baby Showers, of course, are inevitably draining. Baptisms, birthdays, and even graduations can be triggering for many loss parents: all remind us of the milestones we are missing with our precious children who left us too soon.
But one situation many might not expect to be tough is making small talk, especially when meeting new people. Of course this varies by person and personality. It varies by how each loss parent carries the memory of their child with them. However, many like myself, feel that their losses have so dramatically shaped their personhood that it needs to be made known to give context to all else. But how to express that to someone you were just introduced to at a party? Good luck.
When baby loss stands like a giant elephant in the room that only you can see, trumpeting in tones only you can hear, it’s hard to hold a conversation about the weather. It’s hard not to say, “Hey, do you see that elephant too? No? Just Me?” Usually the other person says, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve heard about the elephant, but never seen it. I hope it doesn’t step on your toes,” before carrying on with the conversation, now with a pitying expression.
Sometimes, though, the new person will gently touch your arm and say, “My friend, the invisible elephant is indeed in the room with us. She has become my friend. She’s a cumbersome sort of friend, and takes a lot of room. Sometimes she will clumsily step on toes and her trumpets may drown out other voices. But she is protective. And she never forgets.”
And you know in that moment that you’re not so crazy after all.