Shoot, let me tell you about the whole adorable outfit. Head to toe.
The hat was large and floppy, drooping dramatically over one eye when I bent the brim a certain way. It was straw, lined with black dye for about an inch of the brim, a black flower, perhaps a hibiscus or peony, perched on the crown. The dress was a white halter dress with large black and yellow flowers and a black sash tied around my waist in a bow. The skirt flared slightly over a black netting rimmed with black ribbon and fell just above my knees. The shoes were black patent, rhinestone sprinkled, peep-toe wedges with a straw heel, same color as the hat, and I carried a black patent bag. I wore an antique necklace around my neck that I found at a flea market about fifteen years ago with a best friend. It is silver flowers that interlock and each flower holds a blue bead in the center of its petals.
It was a good outfit.
Today, in the humid June weather of Minnesota, 90 degrees, 52% humidity, I decided the hat was in order again as I was going to walk six blocks with friends for a happy hour at a Tex-Mex bar. I couldn't resist putting together another outfit, and dressed in a spaghetti-strapped v-neck black floral sundress, the same peep-toe wedges, same hat, and same black patent bag. It was pretty cute, despite the cleave sweat beading between my breasts, the sweat pooling in the small of my back, and the perspiration popping up on my cheeks under my eyes.
Dampness aside, my spirits were lively as we walked to our destination, two dear buddies and I. We discussed the details of my impending date with "Ryan", an e-harmony suitor who likes golf and wears braces hoping for "a nice set of chompers" later in the year. As I am new to the online dating scene, the discussion was light and fun. I, this silly woman wearing a big floppy hat, was planning a summer of whirlwind dating and casually archiving potential "matches" if they didn't seem to be my type. Then I told one friend about how the other had taken me on the best date I'd been on in a year- how she called twice to confirm, picked me up in her sweet ride, and dazzled me by bringing her own bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to dinner at Origami, our favorite sushi place. Our friend teased me about how she was disappointed I didn't put out and I laughed and said that was more of a second date sort of thing. We also joked about how, on the date, I told her about the very nice man who was my boyfriend, and who was now no longer my boyfriend. She was shocked, having not seen me in over six months, that she had missed the event. "How's Katie?" her husband had asked after our date.
"She had a boyfriend!" said my friend. "And he's gone. They went on trip and everything. Apparently I don't see Katie that often."
Which is fine. We love each other and it doesn't matter that sometimes our busy lives pull us in many directions. The point is we were laughing and joking about the events in my life. We were having fun.
And we continued having fun over margaritas and guacamole, and we continued having fun when our fourth friend joined us, and we continued having fun when she ordered a Sprite, and we continued having fun when she told us she was pregnant. And we started talking about babies and childbirth and labor and the adorable things children do and the trials of motherhood. And it pains me to say this, but I stopped having fun.
I love my friends who are mothers. I love my friends who are pregnant. I love hearing about their stories, about the great moments, the tough moments- really everything except the painful moments (I don't handle medical stories well). But unfortunately, due to the combination of two nights in a row of women saying they were pregnant (two at my book club the night before), two hours of talking about babies, and two drinks over our happy hour, I was bumping up against a sadness I never admit to myself.
I want a baby. Some day. But right now it feels like that day will never come.
"I can't even let myself go there," I said to my friends, "because it just isn't even remotely a possibility right now." I dismissed the possibility of kids like I had no feelings about the subject. They nodded and we returned to talking about babies, me piping in with a story about someone else I knew just so I wouldn't be completely silenced in the conversation.
We continued talking and laughing. "I mean, who else would have a pregnancy chart in their purse?" said the new mom-to-be to the rest of us. She explained what it was to my other non-mother friend and when she asked how it worked, she promised to figure out when the non-mother-married friend would be fertile and when she would be pregnant.
"Would it tell me who the father would be?" I ask, leaning in and looking at the chart. They all laugh. And I laugh. I am still telling myself I don't want kids. I am not ready to bump into the truth.
We say good-bye to new mom-to-be, a woman who went through a miscarriage in the fall, a woman who will be an amazing mom, and a woman I am genuinely happy for when I hear the news.
As we walk home, I want to be just as sincerely happy as the two women I am walking with, two college roommates, one a mother and one not. But I am starting to realize I can't. "You guys," I say, two hours of baby talk and two drinks later, "that was reaaaally hard." Before I know it, tears are filling my eyes underneath my big, floppy hat. "I just can't grieve one more thing. I already lost so much. I can't think about the fact that I don't have kids." I want to stop talking about it immediately.
"What are you doing?" I asked myself as my friends consoled me and reminded me that life just takes different time frames sometimes, that I don't need a man to have a baby, and that women have babies well into their forties. "You're walking around in this ridiculous hat, going on stupid dates with men who don't care about you and wear braces. You're playing dress-up. You're a failure. No one wants to marry you."
I wiped away the tears and we switched topics.
When I got home I cried. Not because I want a baby. I cried because I both want and don't want a baby. In my mind I know this is not the time, I know that there are things I must do before I give myself to a child. I know that I would not have wanted to deal with co-parenting children with a sex addict. I know that I don't want to be a single parent, that I would never trick someone into fathering offspring. I know that I am blessed to come home and be needed only by a small dog. I worked 60-70 hours a week this spring between my full time career as a high school teacher and my part time gig as an online instructor and I was taking a grad school class. And I dated someone. And I was writing. And I was spending time with family and my wonderful nephews. There is no way I could have a baby right now.
But there is a part of me that feels like life isn't fair. That of all people in the world, I deserve a baby.
Right now, I think my book is my baby. "It's not what you want," said my adviser when I met with him to discuss my thesis, a book-length manuscript. "It's what the book wants." He was speaking sympathetically about my resistance in hashing up the past, in telling my story, marriage, divorce, and recovery.
Sometimes I think I say too much in my writing. Right now, for instance, since my two dear friends are among the ten people that read this blog and I worry they will think I was upset or didn't appreciate them. Or when I look back at the graphic scenes I've revealed about my sex life and think about the people who will judge me for revealing my truth. Maybe it's ridiculous to be this vulnerable. To be this open. To risk hurting feelings of those I love.
But I think I'm doing it because I'm strong enough to be honest. I'm not talking about babies to guilt trip my friends. I'm not talking about sex to get attention. I'm talking about my life and my experiences. I'm talking about my truth, about learning a secret that destroyed my former self and gave me something so much richer in return. There are sad moments. There are moments I wish dearly to be a "we" or a "family." But without a doubt I know I am stronger and happier today than I ever have been in my past, and I know I will be ok. I'm ok where my life and my writing leads me. And I guess I'll have to leave it at that.
So if that means I wear floppy hats to cheer myself up once in a while, so be it.
