My
parents never sat me down and discussed the "birds & bees" with me
from what I can recall. There was a bookcase in the downstairs living
room overflowing with volumes of books. Not dusty, untouched ones, for
my mother seemed to keep her books to good use on a regular basis. Each
one was read with care, maintaining their glossy covers and crispness.
I
remember one book in particular. It was a bit smaller than the rest and
cappuccino in colour. For years, I wasn't tall enough to reach it.
However, one afternoon after being left alone in the house, curiosity
got the best of my innocent spirit. I had managed to hoist myself up
toward the towering bookcase, barely grasping the bind of the book with
my tiny pink fingertips. It descended to the floor and the crash echoed
throughout the house. There I dangled, gripping the giant ledged book
refuge made of oak, begging to be spared of my own life. I was clawing
the wood with my flimsy nails as if I were an alley cat escaping a
nipping canine bite.
The small book laid on the floor open in plain view with the words, "SEXUAL REPRODUCTION"
in large bold letters. I immediately recognised the first three letters
however, the rest I had trouble sounding out. The first three letters, S E X
were often fingered through the foggy condensation on the school bus
windows. Instantaneous giggles always followed the perverted acts of
lewd ten year old boys. I thumbed through the book, exposing myself to
various sexual positions, which I later felt guilty for the liking of
my latest discovered erotica. Nowadays, I wonder if the placing of the
little brown sex book directly two shelves above the children's book
shelf was intentional. Perhaps my parents thought, "If they are big
enough to reach the book, they are big enough to read about the
subject." And eventually, boom! Instant enlightenment on the "birds and bees" without the actual discussion.
The
years before my erotica discovery, I prayed the exact same prayer on my
knees each night before my sweet slumber. I was a fearful child.
Fearful of rejection, death, disasters and pain. My prayer throughout
my childhood consisted of four exact sentences. Naturally, the last
request was taken out of my prayer after the little brown book was
found. It was then I was revealed that God doesn't pick and chose which
women have children. Or, does He?
Dear God,
Please make my mom and dad love each other everyday.
Keep my baby brother safe.
Don't let there be a tornado or fire tonight.
Please do not put a baby in my stomach.
Amen
Seven years later
I
was seventeen and everything was going well for me. I was voted Junior
Homecoming Maid in high school, our cheerleading squad made it to
nationals, I was in love, had a new car, and lots of friends. Little
did I know that I was about to hear the most devastating news of my
life.
"You have been diagnosed with a condition called Premature Ovarian Failure. Your ovaries are not working properly and you will most likely never conceive a child."
My
world was crashing and I wanted to die. From that point on, my life
drastically changed. I dated less and less in fear of not being able to
live up to the expectations of the men in the south who couldn't wait
to have strapping young lads carrying out the family name-- A tradition
that could only be carried by a child of their own flesh and blood. In
college, I didn't pursue relationships with men that passionately
talked about having families of their own. I couldn't face telling them
I was inadequate to give them a child. Thus, losing out on what could
have been beautiful connections.
I felt as if a magnificent
experience was ripped from me, robbing me from such an incomprehensible
moment. A moment that I would watch time and time again, as my college
friends eventually had children. And now my own brother and his wife
are making me an Auntie this April.
"What were mom and dad's reactions to the baby news?"
"They both were ecstatic. Mom's reply was, I'm going to be a Granny!"
"That is wonderful. I am so happy you have them near."
"Me too, Amanda. After all, it may be the only."
"What?"
"Nevermind"
"Grandbaby they ever have?"
"I'm sorry...I should have thought before I spoke"
Once
again, my heart sank. My family has already accepted the fact that
Darren and I will be childless. And while I am thrilled for baby
"Holland Diane" to be a part of my family's lives, my heart is saddened
of a future without a similar experience of our own. The happiness I
have felt for my friends and their newest family additions has been
such a strange & foreign emotion. Never have I felt so much sadness
with an emotion that is to create bounds of contentment. Combining
happiness and sadness into one emotion has been a form of heartbreak
for me.
I have recently swallowed my pride, stopped ignoring
my diagnosis and began researching other options for future reference.
I will continue to smile politely when asked, "When are the two of you
having children?" I will continue to thumb through baby clothes in
department stores, allowing the scent of fresh softness to linger as my
fingers feather the gentle cottons of crib blankets and tees, bringing
me a glimpse of hope. I will go on imagining the feeling of contentment
in knowing that someday we will have a family. Someday, my husband and
I will be picking out paint colours for the spare bedroom that will
eventually be converted to a baby's room. Someday, I will give my
mother and father and second grandchild.
Perhaps, my childhood prayer "please don't put a baby in my stomach" has been answered. But, forever more my prayer will be, "Dear God, please make me a mother."
Amen.
