Sometimes It's Easy to Make a Hard Decision

They had pretty pink bows in their hair.

Running through the grass and falling on top of each other, the two little toddlers were oblivious to their mothers’ watchful eyes. Their playful giggling drowned out any adult conversation coming from the bench only a few feet away. As I walked past them I wondered. I wondered if their children were adopted or if they had them the good ole’ fashion way.

I’ve been having conversations like that a lot in my head lately. It seems I’ve not only noticed children more than usual, but I have found myself caught in conversations about people’s children. I’m sure this has always been the case, but in light of my recent doctor’s appointment the thought of children seem to be more front stage than usual.

I don’t have any children and my scheduled hysterectomy on April 1 permanently closes the deal. Sure, I can adopt. I have no problem with that. But there’s something about the birth of a baby. Your baby. The one who has your green eyes or your curly red hair. The child who has your smirk. Your laugh. Your bad math skills, but your artistic flair. A little you… as good or bad as that may be.

I was a little girl once.

And I had dreams. As a child I always assumed I would get married and have children. You know, the white picket fence and children’s artwork on the fridge. I’ve never married. I’m in no hurry for a bad marriage and so I’m more than willing to wait on a good one. But the children. I’ll be 40 next year and I have never, never wanted to have children in my 40’s. I applaud those who do, but it’s not something I want.

My mother asked me to put off the surgery and see if I could have a child. God bless her. She’s probably the only mother in history to ask her unmarried daughter to get pregnant. I can’t. I never wanted to be a single mom. And I can’t ask my boyfriend of less than two months to be a daddy. Plus, the real humdinger is that I’m most likely infertile anyway.

Part of me wishes I could give her a grandchild. Even though my parents would strongly disagree, I do feel like I’ve short changed them. I have never given them something that would bring them such incredible joy. I would love to be able to do that for them. But I can’t. And it hurts.

I explained to my mother my decision for having the surgery. I told her as deep as the emotional struggle is to permanently end the dream of having children, the relief I will get from having no more pain is stronger. The unbearable pain has to go. And out of this decision comes the guilt over a child that has never been born. My child.

I would be lying if I said the doctor’s suggestion was a shock. I had been contemplating it for the past couple of years. It was always in the back of my head, but I was too scared to say it out loud. The “what if’s” kept my mouth shut. The “could be’s” kept the dream alive. It took the doctor to say something for me to actually acknowledge it. To realize it. To absorb it.

And it made me feel justified.

I’m not one for radical surgeries just for the hell of it. I don’t have cancer and so this isn’t an emergency. But the early April date works in my busy schedule. I’m not looking forward to the cabin fever, but I am looking forward to after the recuperation period. I think I’ve forgotten what it was like to feel healthy. They say you never know the actual level of pain you’ve lived with until it’s gone.

As of today – Friday, March 6 at 7pm – I’m happy with my decision. I reserve the right to break down and cry at any moment. But right now as I type this… I’m okay.

It doesn’t matter if they were adopted or not.

Those two little girls I saw playing were having the time of their lives. Their grass-stained pink shirts and their messed up hair were the furthest things from their minds. All they cared about was each other and how loudly they could laugh. They don’t know how they came to be. They don’t know if they were planned or an accident.

And it surely didn’t matter at that moment. To anyone.

Some Things Are Just Not Cherry-Worthy

Poor lady. I don’t know why she continues to subject herself to my family’s craziness.

She’s in her eighties and lives down the street from my grandmother. She goes to church three times a week – if not more. Every Tuesday she goes to the hospital to visit anyone who needs cheering up, whether she knows them or not. She weighs all of 80lbs, soft spoken, pale as a ghost, tight curly short brown hair and is as sweet and innocent as anybody can be. And I’d bet you a million dollars she gets uncomfortable during our family’s “questionable” discussions.

She was invited to join us for Easter lunch.

However, we had to wait to eat until she returned home from church at 12:30pm. Asking my family to wait to eat for anything is considered criminal. It was only 10am when we arrived at my Grandmother’s, and you would have thought it would be a week until our next meal. Everyone bumped elbows while hovering over the turkey and ham. Picking out and eating the tiny pieces apparently isn’t considered really eating. And somehow selflessly finding these treasured slivers for each other made our own gluttony guilt free.

“Let’s not invite her next time,” my grandmother said as she “tasted” a roll. “We can’t just wait until she’s back. If we invite her next time, we’ll just tell her she can’t go to church.”

We took turns being the lookout. The lookout’s job was to stand at the kitchen window and watch for her red Cadillac to pull into her driveway. It was during my shift when she finally came home after her selfish morning of worship and praise. I yelled through the house, “She’s home!”

Moments later the phone rings. When my Grandmother answers, her voice suddenly goes up three octaves higher…

“Ohhhh hiiii honey. Ohhhh, you’re okay. You just come over whenever you’re ready. Do you need Becca to come down and walk with you?”

Wait. Whenever she’s ready? My, how Grandmother’s attitude changed. Just mere seconds ago she was salivating over the corn casserole. And what’s with her volunteering MY services? Being the youngest in the house, I guess she assumes I get around better and I felt this wasn’t the time to compare arthritis medicines.

I look at my uncle, “You go get her.”

“What… you want me to throw her over my shoulder and come back running?... Ok.”

Within a few minutes she finally arrives to the house carrying a bowl of special fruit salad. It was special because she put cherries in it. She doesn’t normally put cherries in it but thought this occasion deserved some.

Sitting at the table scarfing down our food, we had our usual off-the-cuff conversations.

My mother told a story about one of her students and it somehow turned into one of those things I’m sure the elderly neighbor feared.

Mom: He said he lives behind The Honey Hut.

Me: What’s The Honey Hut?

Grandmother: Sounds like a strip joint.

Aunt: And how would you know what a strip joint sounds like?

Grandmother: I just know.

Mom: Whatever it is, his dad buys him burgers there.

Uncle: Strip joints serve food, too.

Aunt: And how would you know that strip joints serve food?

Uncle: I just know. Where’s the phonebook?

My uncle is very inquisitive. He will ask a million questions about any topic until he feels he’s received enough to base some sort of opinion. I usually bring up a topic on purpose just to get him going.

The way-out-of-her-comfort-zone neighbor is silent as my uncle returns to the dinner table and begins flipping through the phonebook. Her eyes are down and she occasionally picks at her special fruit salad.

Uncle: There’s not “strip joint” listed in the phone book.

Mom: Try “adult entertainment.”

Uncle: Nope, not there either.

Aunt: I’m somehow pleased to know you don’t know how to look this up.

Me: Try “ho.”

Grandmother: Try “entertainment, adult.”

I don’t want to know how my grandmother knew how to find the listings of strip joints. I really don’t. My mind cannot even go there. Turns out The Honey Hut is listed under “restaurant and bar,” so the question is still unanswered. I trust my uncle will get to the bottom of this stripper matter and report back to the family.

She didn’t last long after lunch. Shocker.

She’s a sweet lady and tried very hard to change the “stripper” topic by talking about the troubles with her cordless phone. Right after the kitchen was cleaned and right before it was Sunday afternoon naptime, she fetched her bowl of leftover special fruit salad and waved her goodbyes. My uncle escorted her home so he could take a look at her phone. Turns out she just wasn’t hanging it up correctly.

I wonder if she’s looked back on today’s Easter celebration with my family and wondered if it was special enough for cherries.

Oh, How I Love Thee... Let Me Count the Cheesy Ways

What was meant as a small request from a five year old has turned into a hair pulling experience.

I don’t have children. So when my nephews and niece have a request, I am willing to do as many cartwheels and backhand springs necessary to make sure it is done. And since they live in a different state, the pressure builds to be the perfect aunt… and I always feel I fall short.

I never reach my yearly quota of hugs and kisses from them. Mainly because when I’m with them, I don’t want to be labeled “the annoying aunt” who can’t quit kissing or squeezing them. We all have had aunts like this. I often ride that fence between being loving and irritating and it takes honed skills to not topple completely over onto the wrong side.

When my sister-in-law was pregnant with my oldest nephew Clark, I wrote him a poem while on a road trip to south Florida. I was crammed in the backseat between pieces of luggage and needed to somehow mentally drown out the horrible music and out-of-tune voices coming from the front of the car. Even though Clark wasn’t born yet, I felt so much love for him. Now even at nine years old, he still proudly displays the poem on his bedroom wall. Okay, I’m sure the truth is that my brother hung it on the wall years ago just to humor me.

I never wrote a poem for my niece or youngest nephew when they were born. It’s not that I didn’t think about it… I just didn’t write them. Maybe there was just something special about the first born. Kinda like how mothers fill out those baby books for their first child and then slack off for every kid after that.

So, now I’m in trouble.

Apparently my five year old nephew, Philip, has noticed that Clark is the only one with a poem written by Auntie Becca. After a week of Philip’s complaining about not feeling the love, my brother calls me with this seemingly small request:

Him: He wants you to write him a poem.
Me: Really? He’s five. He actually cares?
Him: Becca, he won’t let up. Every night he’s asked me if I’ve called you yet.
Me: Awwww, he’s so literary at such a young age!
Him: Either that or he’s just pissed that Clark has something he doesn’t.
Me: I’d rather believe that he’s a little poet like me.
Him: Ok, whatever makes you feel better. Just write him one for his birthday, ok?

His birthday is Saturday.

THIS Saturday. Ok, I’m not going to lie. This conversation between my brother and me happened a month ago. I’d love to tell you that I immediately sat down and jotted out a beautiful poem, but my nose would grow longer than Pinocchio’s. Apparently my natural habit of procrastination even applies to meeting the needs of the world’s greatest youngest nephew.

It dawned on me today that I needed to write a poem, print it out, find a frame and mail it tomorrow. Even then Philip still probably won’t get it until Monday. See? Bad aunt. No amount of cartwheels or backhand springs will get me out of this.

All day at work I thought about the direction of the poem and I came up with no good ideas. It wasn’t until I came home from work, sat down with my laptop and forced a poem out, that I actually feel I might have written one worthy enough for my little Shakespeare. I thought about all the things his little five year old self loves. I thought about how turning six will mean that he’s now too big for a nursery rhyme and still way too young for a sonnet. I wanted him to be able to relate to the poem and hopefully not toss it aside as he grabs his brand new way cool robot. Of course if my brother’s assessment is correct, Philip will not even read the poem but yet put a mark on the “Clark vs. Philip” scoreboard. It will be interesting to see if my seven year old niece Audrey will care enough to request a poem for her April birthday. I better get started just in case.

I wanted to write a poem that expresses my cheesy love for Philip without coming across as that “annoying aunt.” Hopefully I’ve succeeded…

Oh, what a wonderful world! I love so many things!
Like squiggly lines and funny hats and a butterfly’s wings.
I love when the sky turns orange before the sun goes to bed.
And how a parrot’s feathers are blue, purple, yellow and red!

I love bananas in my cereal and sugar in my tea.
And hot fudge drizzled over a chocolate brownie.
I love that mountains are so big and ants are so small.
I love so many things! No time to list them all!

I love wishing wells, seahorses and singing in the rain.
Shower me with hugs and kisses and I never will complain!
I love counting stars at night and seeing how high I go.
And all the crazy creatures in the ocean down below.

It’s hard to imagine anything that I love more than these.
It’s Philip that I love more! He makes it such a breeze!
I love him more than roller coasters or puppies or pie.
I love him more than firecrackers exploding in the sky.

A jillion times around the world and you're still not quite there.
I love him more than trucks or robots or a furry koala bear.
There really is no end. I love him more than the highest score.
He’s the greatest youngest nephew and everyday I love him more!

She's so dramatic.

Me: I’m going to do something and I’m not sure if I should tell you.

Mom: Oh God. What. What are you going to do. Oh God.

Me: I really don’t think you’re gonna like this.

Mom: Just tell me. Oh God.

Me: I’m going skydiving.

Mom: Oh dear Lord! You are not! You’re going to die!

Me: I doubt I’ll die, but I’ll make sure all my affairs are in order before hand.

Mom: Don’t even kid, Becca. You’re going to break your legs.

Me: It’s a tandem dive, mom. The instructor is in control. Plus, he’s legs will hit first.

Mom: You’re going to break your legs and possibly your arms, too.

Me: Oh mother.

Mom: Do NOT tell your grandmother about this. It’ll do her in. Oh dear Lord.

Me: I’ll tell her the day after so she’ll know I’m alive and safe.

Mom: Oh God. Are you really going to do this?

Me: Yes.

Mom: I hope it scares you so bad that you pee, shit and throw up all the way down to the ground so you’ll never want to do it again.

Me: Thank you for your support.

Cosmic Conspiracy

I think I was born into the wrong family.

It’s nothing against my relatives. Really. They’re great. I love them. However, I just think that I was meant for something else. Something different than this.

I think when I was born, some papers got mixed up. Maybe a baby-switch scandal. Maybe I’m really adopted and no one’s told me. I guess looking exactly like my father proves these theories wrong.

Maybe the Fertility God’s decided to play a joke. Maybe they were bored one day floating around in the universe and thought this would be really funny. Bad joke, perhaps? Little did they know that I would eventually catch on. That I would discover their cosmic conspiracy.

I think I was meant to be Royalty.

I spent the afternoon at the day spa. Let me say that again: the DAY SPA. There I was being pampered and fussed over… and loving every minute of it. I soaked it up. I think I was meant to be incredibly wealthy, have servants, a masseuse, a chef and a driver. They would all be paid an insane amount of money to make me feel like the princess that I know I am. Of course I can’t forget the cabana boy. He’s very important to my overall well being.

I don’t consider myself a high maintenance gal. I don’t require attention 24/7 from the people in my life. I’m easy to please. But I feel that what I experienced today should be experienced on a regular basis. Like every week would be grrrrreat.

I felt this conviction even stronger when I got home.

When I got home from the day spa, I was all noodley and relaxed and had this calm euphoric feeling. I was looking forward to chillin’ out… maybe watch a little television… maybe take a nap. I was all about anything that wouldn’t exhort energy. I wanted to bask in my royalty-ness.

When I walked through my front door, my house was hot. Not cool. Hot. This is not good for a princess. Princesses require air conditioning. I don’t know anything about air conditioning, so I did what every unknowledgeable princess would do… I went outside and stood there staring at the unit. I guess I assumed that it would tell me what was wrong. Other things do. My printer tells me when it’s out of paper or ink. When my car is low on oil, a cute little light that says “low oil” blinks. When I’m low on gas, it even sings to me. This big metal thing-a-ma-jig in my backyard was saying notta.

This was bad news for the refreshed princess. Luckily I was able to contact my landlord. She said that she would try to get someone over. Try? I didn’t want to play my Royalty card to heavily, but I explained to her that it was FREAKIN HOT and that it would be swell if I could have some assistance. It was 95 degrees and I was inside my house sweating. A sweating princess is not a happy princess.

Long story short, a nice man came over and fixed it. He was very efficient. I bet he realized that he was dealing with a future queen.

I wish other people in my life were as observant.