What I remember

it occurs to me as I sit here listening to a sweet- voiced singer songwriter. With my wife. With a boy named Elliot who I taught last year sitting in he audience. There are so many people I know who I won’t remember   

I will know them. And then I won’t. Like life 

I cannot possibly hold onto it. 

And the singer just said, “this one’s really sad ,… Please don’t cry. It makes other people really uncomfortable.” Chuckle.  

There is sweetness in the sad. 

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Happy is Hard 

especially at holiday time, when lol your friends and family are bursting with new babies and bellies. 

It’s bitter sweet. I love them. I’m happy for them. But it’s so hard. 

We’ve been re-watching the L Word     Honestly. I don’t think it really hit me the first time, and how could it have, at twenty, how much real life can be contained in a soapy lesbian TV drama. At the time I was psyched to see attractive, stylish and diverse representations of my community – a great counterpoint to the schleppy, frumpy and bland versions most visible in the media. I was thrilled to imaging that lesbians could look just as glam in a variety of impossibly complicated romantic situations as any 90210/Melrose Place/romcom cast. And despite the show being bemoaned and criticized for being inaccurate in its drama… I really felt like it mirrored my life and the lives of people I knew. 

I, too, would find it hard to have a night out without running into an ex, and dated people who were best friends with ex partners and sharing one bedrooms apartments, who were struggling with biphobia or transitioning and the scene was just as incestuous as the show portrayed. 

I cried out in protest as Bette cheated on Tina with the carpenter, identified with the torment of forbidden desire and confusion Jenny felt – even if I hated her internal monologues. I felt likens knew these people because I was these people and knew these archetypes, who were, in fact, more real to me enhance most of the images I had grown up watching. 

That us all to say, as with most  things viewed retrospectively, I knew so much less than I thought I knew. 

It wasn’t until now that I really remembered how ‘unreal’ it felt to watch Bette and Tina go through their miscarriage in screen. It was ten years off my radar. 

You notice what reflects yourself back to you. While once I was preoccupied with identity and expression, my focus has shifted to building a family. I see it everywhere. And like that stream you can never step in twice, because the water is always moving, I am a different person with a different perception of the world. When I look at life through this lens I see the world anew. 

Baby, this time you’re it. 

Fun with telemarketers

how much do we all love them? I have a personal distaste for the ‘let me check your water heater to see if you qualify for an upgrade’ types who pretend they aren’t soliciting.  But what about the ones who get your number and interrupt your life, intruding upon your private time? 

Just got a text from my wife. Thyme Maternity was just calling to collect information (which really isn’t their business) about whether we had a boy or a girl. 

We didn’t.  

Awkward conversation. 

But what did you expect when you are talking about life… And death. And in an industry like the baby business it should seem like a no brainer, rather than no brain, that you can’t make assumptions.

People do this in person, too, and always with the best intentions, when they press for details about your baby progress. You are asking me to vocalize how our struggle is going. You are catching me unaware and unprepared for a conversation that I now feel must protect your feelings by avoiding letting you feel awkward when I tell you, because I now feel obliged, that we just had another miscarriage. Or veil the issue with a “we are working on it”. When there is something to let you know. I will let you know. 

And please don’t console me with the story of your sister/ friend who had five miscarriages. 

I don’t know if that helps. I can’t imagine three more of them. 

Right now the highlight of our process is that A has her period. So we can start to nervously inch back towards our hopefulness. 

And try to hope like I’ve never lost a baby… Twice. And dance like no one is watching. And all that cliched crap. 

And I am sad when I wonder if, when I finally get to the 9 month mark, I will have had the courage to savour and remember the milestones I cherished without being afraid, the first time. Before the miscarriage. Or if I will find them blurred, like the small talk from first dates that never went anywhere or amounted to seconds, or have been numbed, out of focus, because hoping too much and memorialing these moments is too painful when the date ends in a breakup via ultrasound. 

I hope to have the resiliency to remember the next time even if it’s not the last time.