Doubting and What If

I had written an account of our Thanksgiving meals and I will probably still post that, but there has been something else bouncing around in my brain that I need to get out. My mom and I have been on the outs since the incident in September. We really haven’t spoken to one another, which made Thanksgiving awkward because my mom basically refused to talk to me, or even look at me for that matter. On Saturday, my aunt (my mom’s best friend) shared something I had posted on my Facebook the previous year, expressing my thankfulness for my family, including my parents. She captioned it by stating she hoped it was ok she shared it, but she felt it was a good time to do so. I replied that I didn’t mind she was sharing it (she was mentioned, after all) and that the sentiments are the same now as they were last year, to which my mom tagged me and replied, “Really???”  I read it and immediately text my sister telling her “Mom is starting shit on Facebook.” I then tagged her back and said, “Yes, really.” But, I knew, if there was any hope for peace on Earth, I would need to call her.

 

So, I stewed for a bit, then swallowed my pride and called her once the little ones were down for their naps. The conversation lasted over 90 minutes and went from terse comments to downright shouting and ended with mundane family conversation and maybe a truce. I think, some of it was my mom wanted to be heard and some of it is the same shit I will always hear from her. At one point, when I brought up my kids and she said, “Oh my god!” in a rather offensive way and then went on to explain how she thinks I’m crazy for being a foster parent, for agreeing to adopt such “difficult” children but if I’m happy then it doesn’t matter what she thinks, I just knew she was never, not ever, going to accept my children as her grandchildren. At least not in the way she would accept a biological child. Two things really stick out at me. The first one was what she didn’t say. She made some comment about biological children and I cried, “That’s great but not something I can do!” I sensed her come-back and she started the sentence, but then stopped herself. Still, I heard what she was going to say. She was going to say how it wasn’t the right guy and that I gave up too soon. She did say something about needing a husband to make that happen. I know she thinks I didn’t explore enough medical options when it came to getting pregnant, but my insurance did not (and still does not) cover a lick of infertility treatments, barring some diagnostic testing that could be labeled as general feminine problems. Without insurance coverage there was no way we could afford the $9,000 + one shot at IVF. Plus, it was evident that the infertility treatments had a very negative affect on my emotional well-being. I was probably clinically depressed in those dark days when infertility eclipsed everything else in my entire life. And, let’s face it, there are no guarantees in infertility. So, despite the doctor’s instance that we were good candidates for IVF because we were young and healthy, we could have saved and scraped together 10 grand and still be left childless.

 

On the tail of the words unspoken came an accusation; my mother does not understand why I have three children. In her “what you’re doing is great, but we think you’re stark-raving mad for doing it” spiel she said, more than once, “I don’t know why one wasn’t enough.” As if children are Lays potato chips and I simply couldn’t eat just one, like a glutton I took on three. I didn’t answer her, I did take her bate on the number of children debate. Because I didn’t tell her, again, the story of how the children all ended up with me, she went on to wish I lived more like my single, child-less friends trotting around the world on glorious vacations. Which, ironically, she chides my sister for doing instead of birthing children. Still, the why three question makes me believe my mom, who is herself a mother of three, thinks I can’t handle it or that I’m not grateful for the one child who is mine.     

 

Mostly, these two points of a very long and difficult conversation, prick the very sore spots I try to soothe for myself. Did I not try long enough or explore enough options with infertility? What if we had had the money, would we have a child together? Would we still be together? Am I taking on too much with three kids? Am I being selfish and discontent by adopting more children than just Primero? These what if questions serve little purpose, yet they have been plaguing me with doubt just as a once-healed wound smarts when the scab is torn off. It is especially hurtful to hear someone else doubting your same doubts.