SHARING BABY NAMES

When it comes to having kids, I have been all over the map. Do I? Don’t I? What do I want? Honestly, I’ve used that as a barometer for when my antidepressants aren’t working. If I’ve had a moment where I felt a glimmer of kid hunger, I knew my meds needed to be adjusted. A bump up or down in dose or a switcheroo in brand and I’d be back to my no-thank-you norm.

Though I’ve never been bummed that I don’t have children—in fact I have spent most of my life super happy that I don’t—I sort of always thought that I’d end up with ‘em. Like, when it was time, I’d do that thing, that thing that’s next. So The Wasband and I would usually reference procreation as a semi-distant When rather than a theoretical If.

Thus we talked names. And they were always girl names. I was raised with only sisters, so thinking about raising a boy never penetrated my thoughts. And The Wasband never wanted a son; he only ever wanted a daughter. Really, I think what he wanted was what my dad has—little girls who are damned certain that their dad can do not a shred of wrong. (Whenever someone hears that I am the oldest of six girls, no boys, they invariably say, “Oh your poor dad!” I am quick to correct. “No, no. My poor mom. Dad could do no wrong. Mom’s job was the tough one.”)

Side note: If you’re curious, where I sit now on the kid question is a very comfortable place of thanks-but-no-thanks. I will be perfectly happy to never grow a baby in this body. Now that I’m divorced and have the option of options in a man, I very much like the idea of being with a guy who has absolutely no interest in ever impregnating me. (Check.) 

Seven years ago, when I got my Yorkie beastie, there was no question as to what I’d name her. (I say “I” instead of “we,” because The Wasband did not want that dog. Not one bit. In fact, to get her I had to make a deal. He could have a human cesspool, er, hot tub for the backyard, if I could get a tiny dog.) Back then, when I got my pet, I knew that if I had children it wouldn't be for quite some time. But since I am of a family of six girls, there was no telling if one of my sisters would get herself pregnant and steal my moniker of choice. So I had to take it off the table. Thus, I dubbed my dog Sophie, so no one else could use it. No kid wants to be told that they were named for Aunt Megan’s dog.

Because The Wasband and I are both plenty opinionated, settling on names for human children was no piece of cake. What he liked, I loathed. What I wanted, he vetoed. Except for two. For some reason, Gwendolyn was a no-brainer. For years, we agreed on that one as an option. And then one night, after a chatting with my parents, my sister Mal, and her husband Nick, we landed on a second name, one we liked even more than our agreed-upon first choice. Sitting in my parents airy living room, the six of us tossed names back and forth for a couple of hours. On some The Wasband and I were in neutral agreement. Others, not so much. I don’t even remember the names we nixed, because when we landed on The One, our hypothetical girl-child was never referred to as anything but. If The Wasband and I had had a daughter, her name would have been Iris. 

So for the both of us, that name should probably die. I know I’ll bury it someplace in the recesses of memory. Since "Iris" was ours together, it would be pathetic to dig it up for use with another partner. For my part, if I had a baby or a puppy with some guy and learned that the name he proposed and I agreed on was significant in a past relationship, well, I’d feel pretty bummed and probably betrayed. But that’s just me, and I have self-respect.

PESSIMASTERY

Though not as frightened as he used to be, Mark is scared of the concept of me as a mother. (Oh calm down, I’m not pregnant and not planning to be any time soon. Mark and I are talkers. You name it, we’ve talked about it.)

My innate pessimism—and yes, it is innate, there’s more than one study that says it's possible—and cultivated cynicism are things he doesn’t want heaped on the next generation.

(As for me, I don’t see the productive value in a ridiculous sunny outlook all the time. Uh, hello disappointment! To live pessimistically is to understand the limitations of faith and to constantly be delighted with the surprise of expectations exceeded. I’m not an unhappy person. Contrarily, I’m a person who finds herself perpetually pleased with a result because I anticipated things going so much worse than they did.)

A few days ago we were chatting with our friend, Mick, about the trials in enrolling his youngest in public preschool. (Oh yes, Dear Reader, that exists—tax dollars dedicated to early school for kids with special needs.) In our discussion Mark asked Mick if you get to choose your kids’ teachers in public school. (Why didn’t he ask me? I know the answer to that! I know the answer to everything!) Mick explained that it’s fraught—you don’t want your kid labeled as the one with the pushy parent, but you also don’t want to land a teaher that’s not going to work for your family. Mick then said, We’ve been really fortunate to have great teachers for our kids. I’m blessed with a sweet wife who can get anything from anyone.

Mark looked over at me, We’re screwed.

I leapt to my own defense. Are you kidding me? Dude, I pay this mortgage with sweetness designed to get me stuff. I can weasel my way into any office based on my sparkling adorability and charm.

Yeah, there’s a dusky layer of sarcasm quivering beneath, but I don’t let that out until the time’s right. So far as anyone new knows, I’m an accommodating, optimistic, peach of a girl with a pixie haircut and elfin face. About six months into my current job I made some offhand very Megan-like comment and my manager said, Whoa! Something from Megan that’s not 100% upbeat! (He’s since met the casual version of me and I’m quite sure he likes it. (Read: I’m still employed.))

So, while managing expectations and enjoying life through the lens of cynicism I’m quite able to utilize expert charm to get things done.

We’re screwed?

As if.

ON SPAWN AND ON AND ON AND ON

I pity women who become mothers and then allow all other affinities and ideas wither to death.

Am I saying that motherhood is mediocre and women who make that their profession are wretched and pitiable? No. And if that's what you think I would imply, you're the one that's pitiable.

Listen carefully: I believe that motherhood is a divine calling, and should you choose to be a stay-at-home mom, good for you. If you choose to be an out-of-the-home working mom, again: good for you. Do what your life dictates. Fulfill your needs. But be more than that which the needs of your children prescribe. Have hobbies, and, in conversation, cover more topics than just your spawn and their development. Notice the world outside your home. Please. Otherwise, how will you be able to teach your kids about what they'll encounter when they step out the front door?

I believe that a woman who is a mother can be more than a taxi-driver and spoon-feeder; and I believe that when she does keep her horizons wide she is doing her kids a great favor. Conversely, women who completely lose themselves in their children are doing their little 'uns a great disservice. They're showing their kids that there is nothing more in life than than one choice at a time. That's false. You can be a great mother and know how to talk about more than soccer games, first steps, and rice cereal.

How do I know this when I've never been a mom? I know because three of my greatest friends embody this type of behavior. Three women in three different stages of motherhood.

And without their permission, I'm going to talk about them.

One is my sister, Whitney--your favorite not-really-a-rookie chef. Whitney has two kids and another one to arrive around May 2010. Jack is four and Van will be 2 next June. When you first meet my sister you'll learn that she's a mom within the first bit of the conversation. It's what she does. It's her job. It's who she is. It makes sense that such a tidbit would make the top of your initial interaction. And though she's a committed mom, you'll find that she understands that not everyone cares about her eldest son's propensity to play fireman all day long. She'll ask what you do for a living or for enjoyment and will very quickly locate a point of interest the two of you can discuss whether or not it has to do with her kidlets.

Whitney and I have little more than blood and religion in common--she's a SAHM, while I am a corporate slave; she loves to cook, while I believe that if I end up in Hell I'll be stuck in a kitchen for eternity; I love yoga, while Whit's never been to a class; I have a dog, and she doesn't want one. All this and so much more define our differences, yet she is my friend and we can talk for hours. We talk about people. We talk about current events. We talk about what interests us individually. And we're both invested in the answers. Not because we're sisters but because we're bound in a friendship we both value.

She knows I love her sons, so she'll let me in on their latest, but she also knows that I have a hard time relating to motherhood, so she makes sure that we talk about more than just what she does during her day. I do the same when it comes to work. I give her the cursory stuff, trying not to bore her stiff with pharmaceutical minutiae. It's gracious.

She remembers what we talk about so that when we next interact she's able to follow up. It makes me feel important to her. I am positive that her kids are her number one priority, but through her recalling my tidbits, I'm also sure that she finds me valuable. It makes me that much more interested in asking after her day-to-day when I know that she cares about more than just herself and her offspring. Her responses aren't tiresome. She's well able to function in a world that doesn't make her kids the number one priority like she does. Unfortunately, I've not found that she's the majority of mothers. She's an exception.

Another exception is my friend, Rabidrunner. She's a mom of two boys as well. Hers are older than Whit's. One eight, the other a kindergartner. I know their names, but I'm not telling you. To you, they are Yahoo #1 and Yahoo #2 (Yahoo #2 possessing perhaps the most awesome voice I've ever heard).

Rabid has done a great job of being an attentive mom and still cultivating outside interests. She's a runner of terrific proportions. She's a photographer. She's a crocheting machine. She's fluent in present happenings the world wide and has informed opinions on such. And along with caring about her kids and Spouse, she has a heart large enough to make me, a familial outsider, feel special.

Again, this isn't the norm. I have acquaintances who have a kid or two and they have done a lousy job of integrating motherhood into their lives. They have a baby and then, a year or a few years later, they still have nothing else. The bits they once had are gone. No hobbies and no remaining friends that aren't also obsessed with their own offspring. That's fine, of course, for we all have our choices and I am a respecter of those decisions, but if you're going to fall into motherhood and never emerge or emerge with nothing but your kids' stats to talk about, keep your mouth shut. You're an egocentric bitch if you have nothing to offer the world aside from tidbits on your children. It's narcissistic and dull. No matter how cute and "advanced" your child is.

In living in the world and interacting with people of all sorts, we have to be able to discuss and show varied levels of interest on many topics. This means that I need to try to understand how important your kids are to you and somehow demonstrate I comprehend that value. My way of doing this is through remembering bits about your children and actively asking after them.

Whatever way it is that you show interest in other people's lives (because it's the polite thing to do)--whether or not they have children--do it; that's just the right way to interface with people of the planet. If it means that when I ask about your kids you don't take the next 30 minutes answering me, bless you; because although I inquired because I honestly care about the answer (to an extent, that is, for I'm not your kids' grandmother), it doesn't mean that you should doom me to a three-month play-by-play. Good manners shouldn't be punished.

My third example of reasonable motherhood is my own mother. Despite the fact that my mom spent the last 28 years rearing daughters, she managed to cultivate a set of killer skills. Specifically, she's written one book that's ready for publication and she's heading into her second.

She didn't get her writing skills from school, instead she used opportunities like church callings and employment at the elementary school her girls attended to better her ability to work words. She used her job as a mother to make the most of the talents God granted her.

To do so, she had to write. She had to read. She had to listen. And she had to talk about more than just her daughters. Had she spent the last 28 years blabbing only about her kids to all who'd listen and even to those who would have spent conversations wishing she'd shut up, she wouldn't have the writing ability she does today. Good writing takes living on more than one plane, and even though my mom did a terrific job showing her daughters the ropes, she did it while diversifying herself to a point that made her able to call herself a Writer.

She wasn't the mother that everyone dreaded talking to because they knew the conversation would revolve around MeganWhitneyCaitlynHaleyMalloryandLauren. For that, I'm incredibly proud of her. It means that today, when I'm able to call her more my friend than just Mom, talking with her has the kind of dimension I appreciate in a friendship.

I don't have kids, and I'm not the only one. If you have small ones (or big ones) and find yourself interacting with people outside your home, you're encountering plenty of folks who are without children, whether that be by their choice or inflicted unfortunate circumstance. If you come across those people, please don't make the mistake of thinking that they care about your kids just as much as you do. For perspective, consider that you really don't care about their job or their dog as much as they do.

As a parent, you have a choice: you can teach your kids that its important to know what matters to other people, or you can demonstrate to them that giving a damn about other folks' interests and being polite in talking about your own is trivial and without consequence regarding social success. If you go with the latter, you'll be wrong.

I'm fed up with making efforts for friends who have kids--remembering their kids' names, ages, and interests--while these "friends" cannot manage to remember the name of the company I work for. It's pathetic, selfish, and one heck of a disincentive for me to focus my intentions and monies on their family unit.

MY PARAGUARDIAN

Sometimes gals who frequent this blog send me emails seeking more information on a topic or tidbit a post referenced. I'm quite sure that when these inquiring readers get my response they regret their email because what they receive in return looks like an eight part treatise that they know they'll have to sacrifice making dinner for the fam in order to read in entirety.

After composing my most recent IUD inquiry, it occurred to me that I should just post the response and if I get further questions I can just send over the URL to this longer response. Save myself a little time. (Not that I'm not happy to write the replies; I have just found that I've rewritten the same reply a few times.)

The question: Why did I go with the copper (ParaGuard) IUD as opposed to the plastic, hormone-secreting Mirena IUD?

A few reasons I'm pro-copper (for my own little cervix):

• With the copper IUD patients don't lose their periods. With Mirena, due to the progesterone it secretes, a patient could lose their period altogether or have it greatly reduced. That sounds lovely, I know, but although that time of the month is just plain rotten I'd rather have my monthly red reminder; it's a sign that I'm not pregnant and that the prevention I'm using is working.

• ParaGuard offers 10 years of protection rather than Mirena's 5 (or 7, depending on who you ask, but the FDA has only approved 5 years). I've had my ParaGuard for 7 years and I love that I didn't have to have it replaced two years ago.

• No hormones. The copper in the ParaGuard IUD is what prevents fertilization and/or implantation, while Mirena secretes 20 mcg (micrograms) of progesterone every day. Even though progesterone is widely considered a "better" hormone to have a little extra of in your body than estrogen, my body makes plenty of hormones and I don't need to add to it.

• Often women break out when they first get their Mirena, and I think I do a great job a making blemishes on my own as well. I know two gals who had a Mirena placed and then had it taken out when their skin exploded. A good friend has one now and just made an appointment to get hers out because of the same skin problem. Each of these women (a small sampling, I realize) are in very different stages in their lives and each has experienced the same problem.

That's why I'm a three-cheers-for-ParaGuard! chick.

There are a few caveats I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you about though:

With the ParaGuard IUD patients' periods don't only stick around, they can be heavier for the first six months or after placement. And, in my case, my cycle remains erratic. (But that randomness is common with all types of IUDs. When I go in for my annual and the nurse asks when the first day of my last period was, I always respond, I haven't a clue. She gives me a strange look. Then she asks my birth control method. I tell her IUD and she then nods her head in understanding.)

My period does come monthly, but I'm never sure just when in the month it'll drop in for a few days. But do know that in my case, it's not like the flow starts and I find myself up a creek without a tampon; there are are the same signs that I'm about to have my pleasant time of the month.

Additionally, with ParaGuard the cramping is worse. I'd never experienced cramps before I had my ParaGuard placed, but since that day my periods have been peppered with cramping. They are worse some months than others.

So although I get more cramps and have had a heavier, more erratic period, I love the ParaGuard because my skin stays the same (with the minor monthly upsets and punishment when I neglect to wash my face properly), my mood is unaltered by any additional hormones, and my period is a great reminder that I'm not pregnant. Whenever I am feeling cramps and realize that I essentially made the choice to get them, I just remind myself that the pain of cramps is much less than the pain of unplanned, unintentional child-rearing.

SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED: IT'S YOURS

Many of the OB/GYN offices I have responsibility for paper their walls in birth announcements, baby photos, thank-you notes to the physician/staff, Christmas cards, and snapshots of the doc and the new mother post-delivery.

Offices that engage in this are a boon to drug reps. We wait. It’s what we do. And while waiting, the photos and notes can serve as distraction, aiding in ignoring the throbbing that inevitably results from standing in 4 inch heels for 35 minutes while the practitioner finishes up a pap, placing an IUD or whatever other form of female torture he’s currently engaged in.

Today, while I waited for Dr. Martin (not his real name; I take great joy playing God on my blog, giving real people pretend names), I read a note unlike any other I’d previously perused. And while I stood, I took the opportunity to transcribe it . . . for you. (I think of you during my day.)

Time and again, the nicest surprises are people and the integrity life can’t quite beat out of them.

Dear Dr. Martin,

Please find the enclosed check for $425 for you.

In 1972 you delivered my daughter Nathalie Ballint at St. Mary’s hospital. At the time my husband, Ron Ballint, and I were totally broke. We were grateful that you took me as a patient seeking natural childbirth and allowed our child to be born alert, healthy and very beautiful.

We were billed $400 by your partnership which we never paid. The bill was sent into collections and we paid a bit of it. But I always wanted to make it up to you and you group.

Recently Catherine made me a grandmother, and it renewed my desire to pay you. I recently received a windfall and realized that it was the key to paying you for one of the most joyful moments of my life. I tracked you down on the Internet and hope this finds you well.

Sincerely,

Sue Ann Roux

APPARENT

I don't say "Never" anymore.

I say "Not now."

And I've been saying it long enough with "I'm still young" as its sidekick that the prospect is becoming less of a concept to shun than a glimmer of a possibility. A glimmer that's no more than a glimmer, and fatalistically, a glimmer that I expect to fade with further passing of time.

"But you'd be a good one," I've told myself with tone of hope and a trace of self-delusion.

Other voices admonish, "You'd be rotten." "You have no control over your temper." "With your temper, it would be irresponsible." "You're too selfish." "You've shown no evidence you're able to change." "You're too materialistic." "Your spiritualism suffers too much."

Some of the voices are mine, emanating from a place dark and familiar. Some of them aren't mine. They come from some that know me. Know me deeper than as the scrappy drug rep or committed yogini or the girl in the back of the chapel that keeps to herself. So because those outside voices know me as me, I bend towards believing them.

I take that, attach it to the fact that I'm not "still young" as I once clung to as my "because," and push the concept away, consigned to spend life learning things instead of creating a body and molding a mind.

"Not old," I'm told.

"Still young," They say.

But They don't know that I've always been older than I am. Though oldest of my siblings, continually, I've been the youngest in other things, expected to rise above my age and perform as my situational peers did. Youngest at my first job. Youngest in my post-college teaching job. Younger than my students. Once "youngest one of your kind I've ever met" in my doctors' offices. Older in mind to compensate for being youngest in body.

Those days have dwindled. I'm simply not the youngest anymore. So the verve and sensations of youth have dwindled as well, such that I don't feel young enough to start something new. I became accustomed to being the youngest, aching to achieve beyond my years. No longer the case, I feel old. In my aging, defeatist mind, I've passed the age in which one can become a young parent; if ever I become one at all.

Add that to the burgeoning list of Scareds and Why Nots. And thank birth control as a den of protective retreat, where the Scareds and the Why Nots are barricaded where they belong: in the yet to be aimed for and perhaps never to be realized future.

Yesterday's reflection on Mme. Sanger may have seemed random if not oddly placed. But I was thinking of her. And I was thankful. She helped to enable my security blanket. The security blanket: a symbol of childhood we abandon as we age; yet it's my age and growing older that has impelled a tighter grip and greater gratitude of this ostensible cover of refuge.

SANGER PRAISES

Thought I don't agree with a good portion of her politics and persuasions (her racism and love of eugenics are especially distasteful), I'm a bit of a fan of Margaret Sanger. I like women who do what they think needs doing despite the unpopularity of their issue and the prospect of social ostracization.

(Ms. Sanger founded the American Birth Control League, which eventually became Planned Parenthood.)

I've long loved this quote regarding the impetus of her raw commitment to birth control:

The women and mothers whom I wanted to help, also wanted to help me; they, too, wanted to build beyond the self, in creating healthy children and bringing them up in life to be happy and useful citizens. I believed it was my duty to place motherhood on a higher level than enslavement and accident. I was convinced we must care about people; we must reach out to help them in their despair.

It's no secret that I'm terribly passionate about birth control (especially my beloved method). But beyond my appreciation for her contribution to birth control's wide availability and social acceptability, I appreciate the honesty of Ms. Sanger's motivation.

Ever popped The Pill? Include this courageous lady in the thank-yous section of your prayers tonight before collapsing into bed.

She deserves it.

YET I STILL KEEP MY CELL PHONE HANDY

Want to get a rise out of someone? Get a good laugh at the expense of another? I’m your girl.

A few years ago my dear old Dad took a tumble off of his road bike, fractured a rib or two, punctured a lung, and further addled his already dotty mind. Living in Sin City at the time, I learned of said clumsiness by phone. My mom gave me the news—I remember I was standing outside Jason’s Deli—and I freaked out. Starting to cry. Raving hysterically. My dad was dying for heaven’s sake. Of course I was freaking out.

Mom laughed at me. Or rather Caitlyn did and mom told me about it, so I blame Mom.

Before they called me, they agreed that “this was going to be good.” For I’m a bit—a lot—dramatic and plenty easy to mess with. Post-call, those two enjoyed contrasting my the-sky-is-falling reaction to that of my pragmatic younger (older) sister, Whit, who didn’t squeal, cry, or rant but just asked if he was going to be okay.

That said, a story follows . . .

A few months ago I was honored by Whitney’s invitation to be present at her son-to-be, Van's, birth. She lives an eight hour drive or inconvenient non-nonstop flight from Sparks, so I’ve crossed my fingers for an induction; I sure don’t want to miss the blessed event.

The induction is scheduled, but being due this month, the SS Van could sail any old time. My bag is packed. I’m ready to go.

I was meandering through Target last week when my ‘lil phone buzzed.

Howareyou? Whit asked quickly after I said Hello.

Fine. And yourself? I drawled.

My water broke. Get on a plane. Fast.

Uh. Oh. Okay. I set my full hand basket down in the nail polish aisle and turned to exit my Target Greatland. Yeah. Okay. Alright, I kept stuttering affirmatives as I headed for the doors.

I’m kidding, the big, mean, thinks-she’s-so-funny pregnant lady said.

Oh. The little rat must not have known that my purpose in Target was to buy her a present.

I retrieved my basket and tried to steady my now-racing heart.

Mean little incubator.

But as awful as that was, it’s nothing compared to what she and my mom did to her husband, Ethan (who was in Canada until last evening). Ask the nasty little mommy-to-be-times-two about that trickery.

INVASIVE HISTORY

Small warning: if you’re squeamish about the female reproductive innards, I don’t recommend you read further. I’m not writing anything graphic, but, well, you know, some people are shy about this kind of thing. (I’m not. I’m all about educating the public on yadda, yadda, yadda . . . )

I’ve mentioned before that there are three topics I’m unable to keep quiet about (fiber consumption, yoga, and birth control); if you know me well, you know how I feel about all three (in a word: strongly). Birth control is one topic I’m zealous about, and it’s probably not for the reason you think. Simply—and I have no problem expounding on this, but I’ll stay brief here—the reason I’m so passionate about birth control and the medical methods available for it, is that I want babies to be wanted.

Beyond my broad view on birth control as whole, regarding methods, I’m committed to preaching the wonders of the IUD—Intrauterine Device. If you’re unfamiliar, know that the name quite literally explains what it is. For a number of reasons, I happily insert myself into any IUD conversation happening around me (which you may not think occurs very often, but I spend a bit of my time in OB/GYN offices), recommend my approach to anyone who’ll listen, and practically do the IUD sales reps’ jobs for them.

Today, I was in an OB office and rather than standing where I generally do while waiting for the physician, I turned around and found myself facing a copy of this poster:


(All of these little lovelies were devices to be inserted into the cervix as the modern IUD is.)

Staring at this exhibition, I was spellbound. The poster is a display of elementary, advancing, and somewhat horrific IUDs of old, new, and just-a-bit-ago. I stared at the poster, read the caption, and discussed the items with the staff—all of whom had a favorite. When the doc emerged from his consult, he was more than happy to point out a few of his favorites and discuss the evolution of this, my preferred method of pregnancy prevention. It was a stimulating conversation that ended in a joke about IUDs as Christmas ornaments—only, only in an OB's office would that happen.

I was so enthralled by the poster that I thought you too would enjoy this peek at Ortho-McNeil’s depiction of the evolution of the Intrauterine Device. See those small stones near the caption at the bottom? Well they’re not a part of the parade for looks only, they’re included as a visual aid of what nomads as birth control for their camels while on long desert journeys—small stones wedged into the cervix.

(See there at the bottom of the poster—it says “The History of Contraception Museum.” There is a History of Contraception Museum? I’m going to find out where it is and organize a field trip one of these days.)