Security Blanket
It was a pastel tarten number, all soft baby blue, pink and yellow and cream. When I was anxious, I would rub the scratchy felted material against my top lip. The tickling was mildly erotic and very soothing. This was my security blanket and I loved it more than my teddy bear and cried and cried when my mother took it from me at four.
Many topics of conversation ebb and flow amongst my co-workers. The other day babies and in particular baby names were on the agenda. I can't remember who started this thread, but I joined in wholeheartedly, asking questions like, what names do you like? etc. It's a topic that I enjoy, having six nieces and five nephews, I've been surrounded by children all my adult life. Also very recently a dear friend gave birth to a beautiful boy that I held in my arms (rather nervously!) for the first time yesterday.
On this day, one of the other conversationalist, a kindly and very talented woman, a mother of an eighteen month old boy, leaned across to me and whispered "Perhaps, you should stop talking about this as there are people for which this topic is painful."
I was stunned and hurt. I try to be sensitive to people around me and to not offend. I also, these days especially, try to be sensitive to the flow of conversation, having been apallingly bad at this in the past and guilty of being one of those bores who lectures endlessly about some point in an argument. I felt I'd outgrown this and was confident in my ability to curb my tongue when needed. To know that I was causing someone discomfort made me feel small and stupid.
Needless to say, I shut my trap. In fact I sat there, numb and silent, a hurt little four year old.
I know this woman was being sensitive to feelings of a friend, and I can guess who it was, but I found my hurt disbelief quickly flared into anger.I didn't enjoy being collateral damage for someone else's sensitivity.
I mean, I have no idea who may or may not have issues about infertility. Most people don't talk about it openly. I've been sensitised to this issue recently having witnessed very close friends go through the struggle with infertility and the terribly physical and emotional ride they had to endure.
I think what hurt and made me angry, is that I do try to be sensitive to people in conversation, and at the same time, do not expect anyone to avoid topics that may be painful to me.
At work, people talk about their families all the time and constantly refer to their mothers and on occasion things will be said that cause a twang for me. The most frequent topic of conversation is relationships with people droning one endlessly about what they did on the weekend with their partners. For someone perpertually single and having pretty much given up on the whole thing, this can be trying. But you know, I'm not churlish, I smile and nod, and I'll show I'm listening and interested.
But I wasn't benumbed by the fact subjects that pain me can raised with impunity, it was the inference, in shushing me, that the topic of having children, couldn't be causing me any pain or that I was insensitive to it in others.
I can't have children. Not with out a great amount of assistance. Oh sure, I'm male and yeah, I can donate sperm. But that's being a sperm donor, not a Dad. And for some guys, gay or straight, that's fine. Not me. I would dearly love to be a Dad, but for that to happen so many things would have to fall into place to make that goal almost impossible and even if I did somehow manage this miracle, the best I could ever hope for is to be a part-time Dad and co-parent. And at this point, as a 38 year old man, I don't even know if I'm fertile and the whole baby making process will require medical intervention and probably IVF anyway.
Does this hurt? To know, in all likelyhood, the chance of being a Dad is pretty much nonexistent? YES and YES and YES. Mostly I don't think about it. I purposely make myself not daydream about what it would be like to hold my own child in my arms. And mostly it works.
Instead, I make a conscious effort to enjoy the contact with the children in my life, to love these kids as if they were my own. All my fathering insticts, my desire to nurture, to love unconditionally, all my joy in their being, I shower on these kids. I take joy in their being and I get so much joy in seeing the love and affection between all these children and their parents.
I love to talk about kids to remind me of all the things I love about them. I love to talk about kids because what joy I have in the children in my life goes a long way to filling that particular hole.
To be fair to the woman at that table on that day, yeah, I cannot know the particular feminine angst or know the depth and pain of an empty womb. But I do know what it is like to long for something that is out of reach and of a someone who you may never get to hold or to know. Perhaps that is nothing in comparison to her pain.
And should I say anything to the kindly shusher? Tell her, yes I have an idea, tell how I felt? You see, I know that if I do, she'll be terribly upset and hurt, that's the sort of person she is. So I won't say anything. Not to be big, but because being hurt by the way she cares for her friend is my issue. Perhaps having friends who shush others in protection is a social security blanket and I'm probably unaware when it's being extended for my benefit by caring friends. So I guess I can still be reassured by the scracthy felted feeling that at least I try, and sometimes I'll fail, to be sensitive in conversation.
Many topics of conversation ebb and flow amongst my co-workers. The other day babies and in particular baby names were on the agenda. I can't remember who started this thread, but I joined in wholeheartedly, asking questions like, what names do you like? etc. It's a topic that I enjoy, having six nieces and five nephews, I've been surrounded by children all my adult life. Also very recently a dear friend gave birth to a beautiful boy that I held in my arms (rather nervously!) for the first time yesterday.
On this day, one of the other conversationalist, a kindly and very talented woman, a mother of an eighteen month old boy, leaned across to me and whispered "Perhaps, you should stop talking about this as there are people for which this topic is painful."
I was stunned and hurt. I try to be sensitive to people around me and to not offend. I also, these days especially, try to be sensitive to the flow of conversation, having been apallingly bad at this in the past and guilty of being one of those bores who lectures endlessly about some point in an argument. I felt I'd outgrown this and was confident in my ability to curb my tongue when needed. To know that I was causing someone discomfort made me feel small and stupid.
Needless to say, I shut my trap. In fact I sat there, numb and silent, a hurt little four year old.
I know this woman was being sensitive to feelings of a friend, and I can guess who it was, but I found my hurt disbelief quickly flared into anger.I didn't enjoy being collateral damage for someone else's sensitivity.
I mean, I have no idea who may or may not have issues about infertility. Most people don't talk about it openly. I've been sensitised to this issue recently having witnessed very close friends go through the struggle with infertility and the terribly physical and emotional ride they had to endure.
I think what hurt and made me angry, is that I do try to be sensitive to people in conversation, and at the same time, do not expect anyone to avoid topics that may be painful to me.
At work, people talk about their families all the time and constantly refer to their mothers and on occasion things will be said that cause a twang for me. The most frequent topic of conversation is relationships with people droning one endlessly about what they did on the weekend with their partners. For someone perpertually single and having pretty much given up on the whole thing, this can be trying. But you know, I'm not churlish, I smile and nod, and I'll show I'm listening and interested.
But I wasn't benumbed by the fact subjects that pain me can raised with impunity, it was the inference, in shushing me, that the topic of having children, couldn't be causing me any pain or that I was insensitive to it in others.
I can't have children. Not with out a great amount of assistance. Oh sure, I'm male and yeah, I can donate sperm. But that's being a sperm donor, not a Dad. And for some guys, gay or straight, that's fine. Not me. I would dearly love to be a Dad, but for that to happen so many things would have to fall into place to make that goal almost impossible and even if I did somehow manage this miracle, the best I could ever hope for is to be a part-time Dad and co-parent. And at this point, as a 38 year old man, I don't even know if I'm fertile and the whole baby making process will require medical intervention and probably IVF anyway.
Does this hurt? To know, in all likelyhood, the chance of being a Dad is pretty much nonexistent? YES and YES and YES. Mostly I don't think about it. I purposely make myself not daydream about what it would be like to hold my own child in my arms. And mostly it works.
Instead, I make a conscious effort to enjoy the contact with the children in my life, to love these kids as if they were my own. All my fathering insticts, my desire to nurture, to love unconditionally, all my joy in their being, I shower on these kids. I take joy in their being and I get so much joy in seeing the love and affection between all these children and their parents.
I love to talk about kids to remind me of all the things I love about them. I love to talk about kids because what joy I have in the children in my life goes a long way to filling that particular hole.
To be fair to the woman at that table on that day, yeah, I cannot know the particular feminine angst or know the depth and pain of an empty womb. But I do know what it is like to long for something that is out of reach and of a someone who you may never get to hold or to know. Perhaps that is nothing in comparison to her pain.
And should I say anything to the kindly shusher? Tell her, yes I have an idea, tell how I felt? You see, I know that if I do, she'll be terribly upset and hurt, that's the sort of person she is. So I won't say anything. Not to be big, but because being hurt by the way she cares for her friend is my issue. Perhaps having friends who shush others in protection is a social security blanket and I'm probably unaware when it's being extended for my benefit by caring friends. So I guess I can still be reassured by the scracthy felted feeling that at least I try, and sometimes I'll fail, to be sensitive in conversation.
posted by Van Dino at 8:47 pm
2 comments
