Fickle

As I said last week, I didn't bring up this to talk about what makes a story a story (although it is, I think, because it is a complete narrative of an event) or whether or not I like the short-short format (like any other work of art, I like some and don't like others--that is just how it is when it comes to the arts). What happened was, a month ago (or not...I think there were acorns on the windowsill but we weren't wearing jackets yet) my husband handed me a packet of stories to read that he was using in his literature class. Sometimes he does this, and I like it. I was flipping through them, reading quickly, when that story stopped me dead in my tracks. That one careful sentence made me feel like I was being strangled. Or maybe more like I had been slowly suffocated for a long time, and suddenly got to take a huge scary breath of air. Yes, that is sort of how it was when I read it.

In once sentence, Lydia Davis had summed up something so succinctly that I have secretly agonized over at various points. She expressed my secret shameful fear boldly. It screamed out at me, simple and plain on an empty white sheet. And it made me feel better, and I sort of wanted to cry, but also I wanted to yell "I KNOW!" When a crux I have puzzled over is finally expressed clearly, I feel wild and excited.

I know I've talked about this before, but I wonder sometimes about my waxing and waning desire to have children. Currently, the desire has all but disappeared. A few months ago, I was baby craaaazy. I wanted a child, so much, and the craving consumed me. It did, it consumed me, it was almost all I thought about. I even read avidly about slings and cloth diapers, even though we had no plans of trying. But now the baby crazy is gone. I'm feeling very busy and fulfilled. I like painting on the weekend, I like thinking about selling art and going places. I love hanging out with my husband when we are not at work. I love how the pets make me happy and annoyed. I also enjoy going to work again--as much as I hate to admit it, I think I am a happier person when I have a job that keeps me just a little too busy. I don't know if it is just how I am, that I like having lots of things going on. (ADD? What?) And as much as I complain that I am stressed and tired, it's okay because I'm doing what is right for how I am. You know? I'm not sure if the disappearance of the baby want is because I am feeling less sad and lonely, if I wanted to fill all the gaping holes created by depression/moving with a child. Now the depression is lifting. I am building a niche. I feel like J and I have a lot going on, and we have plenty of time.

I also feel concerned because it is so opposite of how I felt just a few short months ago.

And maybe that is why this bothers me so much: "it is not so much that she wants to have a child as that she does not want not to have a child." (I had to read it out loud a few times to really grasp it.) I fear that is how I am, that it's not so much that I want a child as that I don't want to ever admit that I possibly would not want a child. I feel like there's such a shameful association with saying, "I don't want kids," that people think it is a selfish sentiment. Then, of course, sometimes the decision to have children seems selfish, because of all the want on this planet, and the way things are being destroyed. And then I think I maybe shouldn't use the word "selfish" at all, because it seems like a terrible way to describe things. It's just that the reasoning in the story is so real to me. And, to me, they sound like ridiculous reasons to bring more people into the world.

I'm pretty sure I'm not saying anything new about this, as my thoughts are just as foggy as ever and the words are coming out in stumbling bursts of cliche. I've already written about it before, and thought I was done, but this story gripped me and shook me around. Perhaps, even deeper than my worry that I fit the story description, is the worry that I change my mind so much about it. That I can go from "babybabybabybaby" to a shrugging "eh" very quickly. I worry that my ever-changing desires are huge red DANGER DANGER DANGER signs, and that I should proceed with caution. A ton of caution. I feel as if my fickleness is a clear indicator that I could possibly be a terrible, terrible parent.

I'm not announcing I don't want kids ever. Twice on Friday I was mistaken for a mother by a kid, and it was sort of bittersweet and reminded me briefly that I have a uterus. I know the craving will return, and I know one day we'll likely make that scary leap. And I'll probably be horribly embarrassed by what I've written in this blog about it because I was so! stupid!

But I can't help that today.

For now I'll keep on being busy and trying to learn things and make things, and I'll keep trying to do my best at work, and I'll keep on enjoying the life we are making together.

It's like I didn't say anything at all and I'm right back where I started, which is why Lydia Davis is so damned smart,
black sheeped