Being a writer, there are some things that people assume come easy to me. Like writing, for instance. But it doesn’t. For me, there’s nothing more intimidating than staring at a blank screen with that cursor blinking, blinking, blinking. It’s like every blink is taunting me and waiting for me to throw out my first sentence. And then once I do, inevitably the sentence is crap, so I delete it and try again. And again. And again. It’s torture.
Writing is damn hard, and I’ve never been so reminded of that fact as when I sat at the kitchen counter of our Tahoe house trying to answer 32 autobiographical questions for our homestudy application. There I was, with the snow falling down outside, a fire roaring inside and a cup of hot cocoa in hand, staring at the first question: “Briefly comment on the relationship of your mother and father (a) with each other, (b) with you, and (c) with your partner.”
Ummm… I’m sorry, but isn’t that three questions? All I could think was… this isn’t fair. Here we are, two good people who just want to be parents and because we can’t do it the old-fashioned way or even the high-tech way, we have to jump through hoops and put our lives on the chopping block so that strangers can decide if we’re parent material.
I’ll be honest, I sat in that puddle of self-pity for a good hour. I thought about the fact that we had to be fingerprinted for FBI clearances and have physicals to prove that A) we’re not criminals and B) we’re not going to drop dead in the foreseeable future. I lamented the idea that a social worker was going to come into my home to make sure it was suitable. I was pissed and annoyed and frustrated and sad and angry and consumed by negative thoughts.
But then, as the answer to that 3-part question started to flow out of me, I thought about the child that would surely come into our lives someday and realized that these questions weren’t meant to be fun or easy or entertaining. They weren’t designed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy about myself. In fact, they were meant to be difficult and time consuming and intimidating because they were designed to protect an innocent child. Plain and simple.
So I put on my writer’s hat and stared that cursor down until all 32 questions were answered. And then I spent two hours typing out the MR.’s answers because he types with two fingers. And yes, that was the one thing I said I wished I could change about my spouse in response to question #20.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
So far so good
If you were going to give $30K to a stranger, what questions would you ask before you handed it over? That's exactly what the Mr. and I have been trying to figure out as we interview adoption agencies and attorneys. And yes, that is the average price tag on adopting a child in the U.S. Actually, it can go up from there depending on the "situation", like maybe the birth mom doesn't have medical insurance. Or maybe she changes her mind once the baby is born and we have to start the search all over again. Good times.
It's been a rough month. I'm not gonna lie. For starters, I've turned to self-grooming to try and save a few bucks where I can. Feeling really resourceful, I bought a $20 facial trimmer to solve the overgrown mustache and eyebrow problem. I'm not sure, but I may have created stubble on my upper lip and potentially my trimmed-up brows make me look like Spock's sister. Sexy stuff.
Besides coming to terms with the cost of it all, the Mr. and I have had to engage in some pretty honest conversations about what OUR vision for OUR family looks like. Because the agencies ask. Point blank. So basically, we have to say out loud to complete strangers, "We want a white baby." Talk about feeling like a horrible, selfish, racist person. I mean, what we really want is just a healthy baby with ten fingers and ten toes. But if you're going to ask and we're going to be honest, then yes – we'd like the baby to be white like us. And the next thing you want to say is: "Please don't think we're bad people."
And then there's the home study application that's packed with 32 questions that the Mr. and I have to answer. Separately. Like this little gem: How do you think parenting will affect your current lifestyle. Is that a rhetorical question? Or how about this one: Describe yourself. Okay, that's a little open-ended, don't you think? And my personal favorite: If you could change anything about your partner, what would you change? How about nothing. I love him the way he is.
Mixed in with what sometimes seemed like dark clouds of reality, the Mr. and I have had some beautiful rainbows, too. Like seeing our friends with their adopted son and realizing that it's not a matter of IF we'll be parents. It's a matter of WHEN. Or standing in the room that will one day be our child's nursery and planning how to decorate it. Together. Because really, these hurdles along the way aren't meant to keep us from adopting a child, but rather they're designed to bring us that much closer to meeting the child that is truly ours. So far so good.
It's been a rough month. I'm not gonna lie. For starters, I've turned to self-grooming to try and save a few bucks where I can. Feeling really resourceful, I bought a $20 facial trimmer to solve the overgrown mustache and eyebrow problem. I'm not sure, but I may have created stubble on my upper lip and potentially my trimmed-up brows make me look like Spock's sister. Sexy stuff.
Besides coming to terms with the cost of it all, the Mr. and I have had to engage in some pretty honest conversations about what OUR vision for OUR family looks like. Because the agencies ask. Point blank. So basically, we have to say out loud to complete strangers, "We want a white baby." Talk about feeling like a horrible, selfish, racist person. I mean, what we really want is just a healthy baby with ten fingers and ten toes. But if you're going to ask and we're going to be honest, then yes – we'd like the baby to be white like us. And the next thing you want to say is: "Please don't think we're bad people."
And then there's the home study application that's packed with 32 questions that the Mr. and I have to answer. Separately. Like this little gem: How do you think parenting will affect your current lifestyle. Is that a rhetorical question? Or how about this one: Describe yourself. Okay, that's a little open-ended, don't you think? And my personal favorite: If you could change anything about your partner, what would you change? How about nothing. I love him the way he is.
Mixed in with what sometimes seemed like dark clouds of reality, the Mr. and I have had some beautiful rainbows, too. Like seeing our friends with their adopted son and realizing that it's not a matter of IF we'll be parents. It's a matter of WHEN. Or standing in the room that will one day be our child's nursery and planning how to decorate it. Together. Because really, these hurdles along the way aren't meant to keep us from adopting a child, but rather they're designed to bring us that much closer to meeting the child that is truly ours. So far so good.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Watching a movie or televison show where the dialog is spot-on completely inspires me. I have such respect for a writer who just nails the cadence of conversation between two people. Friday Night Lights is one of my all-time favorite examples. I can say with all seriousness that I strive for the Mr. and I to interact like Eric and Tammy. Not sure if he's on board entirely, but the new season should be starting soon. We'll see how that goes.
The Blind Side was packed with priceless dialog, but one of my most favorite moments was between Leigh Anne and Sean Tuohy, played by Sandra Bullock and Tim McGraw. Let me set the scene: They're in their foyer greeting Nick Saban from Louisiana State who has come to the house to talk with the Tuohy's adopted son about playing football for LSU. As Saban walks into the den, Leigh Anne and Sean remain standing in the foyer. The exchange between them goes something like this:
LEIGH ANNE (with emphasis): I find him VERY attractive.
SEAN: Yea, I'm standing right here, Leigh Anne.
LEIGH ANNE : Mm-hmm. I know.
How could you not bust out laughing at such a candid moment between a husband and a wife? What makes it so perfect is that there is no doubt throughout the movie how in love those two characters are, and yet the reality is, we ALL notice the opposite sex. If an attractive man or woman crosses your path, you take in the scenery. And that's a fact. Whether you're single or married. Same, same.
Over New Year's, the Mr. and I went skiing in Tahoe with two of our best friends (we'll call them Betty and Barney for the sake of privacy) and their 5-year-old son. (Let's call him Bam-Bam.) While my fancy new ski outfit had me looking like a pro, it's pretty safe to say that if there was a level below beginner shredder, that's where I'd be. Betty was right next to me on the skill scale, so we signed up for a beginner group lesson. I'll be honest here, for a few minutes I daydreamed about having a really hot ski instructor that would make our lesson oh-so-much-more fun. C'mon, I know I'm not alone here on that one.
Alas, we had weather-beaten Clay. A 55-ish man who smoked way too much weed in his day and really wasn't all that interested in being an instructor. Especially not for a bunch of green horns. Without getting into specifics, the lesson was completely useless from an instruction standpoint, but it did boost our confidence, which really is the hardest skill to hone. After our pseudo-lesson, we met up with the rest of our crew for lunch. While I contemplated going up the big-kid lift for some "real" runs with the Mr. (now THAT'S a FUN story for another post), Barney said he was thinking about giving his 1 o'clock private lesson to Bam-Bam.
And so, after our burgers and beers, Barney lumbered (and I do mean lumber... in the most loving way), up to the little red house where all the instructors hang out waiting for their pupils to congregate. Betty and I snapped back into our bindings and started to... what... ski to the bunny hill? That doesn't seem like an accurate description, especially since an ant could move faster than the two of us on flat, slick ground wearing two sticks on our feet. We shuffled. Slowly. That's a better visual.
As I continued to concentrate on speeding up my shuffling to catch up with the Mr., I see Barney heading back towards us. I look over at Bam-Bam who is in the middle of a full-blown meltdown and think, yea... that ski lesson is so not happening. And then...
Helloooo, Peter.
Gliding up next to Barney, Peter makes a beeline for Bam-Bam and before any of us know what's happened, he's got Bam-Bam holding on to a ski pole and skiing over to the bunny hill. Without missing a beat, Betty and I start to shuffle with exaggerated urgency. "Maybe Bam-Bam needs us to take the lesson with him... Peter's hot!" To which my Mr. says in his deadpan way with perfect timing, "Yea, I'm standing right here." Gotta love it when the Mr. pulls out the perfect movie quote.
Here's the deal: Peter was flat-out dreamy. For the next hour, we watched Peter and Bam-Bam go up and down the bunny hill. Okay, okay. We mostly watched Peter, but how could we not? Peter was exactly the kind of guy Betty and I would have been all over in college. We even joked about what we'd do "back in the day" if he walked into a party.
Did dreamy Peter know he had an affect on the ladies? Absolutely. Especially the ladies who fall in the cougar category, which I'm now convinced includes married women of a certain age and not just singles. In contrast to ski-instructor Clay's solid footing in middle age, Peter looked like he barely had a toe in the over-21 camp.
Which brings me to the revelation: It's a hard, cold reality when you realize you've officially entered into Mrs. Robinson territory. As much as I love where I am in life right now, I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for days gone by. They just went so fast. And looking back, I'm not sure if I took it all in as I should have when I could have. But, I guess that's the whole point. 20/20 vision comes later.
As we drove back from Tahoe, I began to think about Mrs. Robinson and how old she really was. So, I Googled. Yea, that's not always a good idea. Did you know that Anne Bancroft was only 36 when she played that iconic role? It's true. When I saw The Graduate, Mrs. Robinson seemed so... well... old. And to my 20-something self, she was. But to my 38-year-old self, not so much. I'll give her a little wiggle room here and say that maybe she was supposed to be 45 in the film, but even still, Mrs. Robinson is now a contemporary of mine vs. my parents.
Once I got beyond my intial holy-crap-I'm-getting-old panic moment (must start Botox, must take Pilates to firm up ass, must make new playlist that does NOT include any songs from the 80s), I started to think about what being a Mrs. Robinson meant to me (minus the whole cheating on my husband part, of course!). And I realized that I'd much rather be a confident, sexy, experienced woman who can still shake it with the best of them, than a 21-year-old, baby-faced girl who still has so much to learn.
Coo, coo, ca-choo.
The Blind Side was packed with priceless dialog, but one of my most favorite moments was between Leigh Anne and Sean Tuohy, played by Sandra Bullock and Tim McGraw. Let me set the scene: They're in their foyer greeting Nick Saban from Louisiana State who has come to the house to talk with the Tuohy's adopted son about playing football for LSU. As Saban walks into the den, Leigh Anne and Sean remain standing in the foyer. The exchange between them goes something like this:
LEIGH ANNE (with emphasis): I find him VERY attractive.
SEAN: Yea, I'm standing right here, Leigh Anne.
LEIGH ANNE : Mm-hmm. I know.
How could you not bust out laughing at such a candid moment between a husband and a wife? What makes it so perfect is that there is no doubt throughout the movie how in love those two characters are, and yet the reality is, we ALL notice the opposite sex. If an attractive man or woman crosses your path, you take in the scenery. And that's a fact. Whether you're single or married. Same, same.
Over New Year's, the Mr. and I went skiing in Tahoe with two of our best friends (we'll call them Betty and Barney for the sake of privacy) and their 5-year-old son. (Let's call him Bam-Bam.) While my fancy new ski outfit had me looking like a pro, it's pretty safe to say that if there was a level below beginner shredder, that's where I'd be. Betty was right next to me on the skill scale, so we signed up for a beginner group lesson. I'll be honest here, for a few minutes I daydreamed about having a really hot ski instructor that would make our lesson oh-so-much-more fun. C'mon, I know I'm not alone here on that one.
Alas, we had weather-beaten Clay. A 55-ish man who smoked way too much weed in his day and really wasn't all that interested in being an instructor. Especially not for a bunch of green horns. Without getting into specifics, the lesson was completely useless from an instruction standpoint, but it did boost our confidence, which really is the hardest skill to hone. After our pseudo-lesson, we met up with the rest of our crew for lunch. While I contemplated going up the big-kid lift for some "real" runs with the Mr. (now THAT'S a FUN story for another post), Barney said he was thinking about giving his 1 o'clock private lesson to Bam-Bam.
And so, after our burgers and beers, Barney lumbered (and I do mean lumber... in the most loving way), up to the little red house where all the instructors hang out waiting for their pupils to congregate. Betty and I snapped back into our bindings and started to... what... ski to the bunny hill? That doesn't seem like an accurate description, especially since an ant could move faster than the two of us on flat, slick ground wearing two sticks on our feet. We shuffled. Slowly. That's a better visual.
As I continued to concentrate on speeding up my shuffling to catch up with the Mr., I see Barney heading back towards us. I look over at Bam-Bam who is in the middle of a full-blown meltdown and think, yea... that ski lesson is so not happening. And then...
Helloooo, Peter.
Gliding up next to Barney, Peter makes a beeline for Bam-Bam and before any of us know what's happened, he's got Bam-Bam holding on to a ski pole and skiing over to the bunny hill. Without missing a beat, Betty and I start to shuffle with exaggerated urgency. "Maybe Bam-Bam needs us to take the lesson with him... Peter's hot!" To which my Mr. says in his deadpan way with perfect timing, "Yea, I'm standing right here." Gotta love it when the Mr. pulls out the perfect movie quote.
Here's the deal: Peter was flat-out dreamy. For the next hour, we watched Peter and Bam-Bam go up and down the bunny hill. Okay, okay. We mostly watched Peter, but how could we not? Peter was exactly the kind of guy Betty and I would have been all over in college. We even joked about what we'd do "back in the day" if he walked into a party.
Did dreamy Peter know he had an affect on the ladies? Absolutely. Especially the ladies who fall in the cougar category, which I'm now convinced includes married women of a certain age and not just singles. In contrast to ski-instructor Clay's solid footing in middle age, Peter looked like he barely had a toe in the over-21 camp.
Which brings me to the revelation: It's a hard, cold reality when you realize you've officially entered into Mrs. Robinson territory. As much as I love where I am in life right now, I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for days gone by. They just went so fast. And looking back, I'm not sure if I took it all in as I should have when I could have. But, I guess that's the whole point. 20/20 vision comes later.
As we drove back from Tahoe, I began to think about Mrs. Robinson and how old she really was. So, I Googled. Yea, that's not always a good idea. Did you know that Anne Bancroft was only 36 when she played that iconic role? It's true. When I saw The Graduate, Mrs. Robinson seemed so... well... old. And to my 20-something self, she was. But to my 38-year-old self, not so much. I'll give her a little wiggle room here and say that maybe she was supposed to be 45 in the film, but even still, Mrs. Robinson is now a contemporary of mine vs. my parents.
Once I got beyond my intial holy-crap-I'm-getting-old panic moment (must start Botox, must take Pilates to firm up ass, must make new playlist that does NOT include any songs from the 80s), I started to think about what being a Mrs. Robinson meant to me (minus the whole cheating on my husband part, of course!). And I realized that I'd much rather be a confident, sexy, experienced woman who can still shake it with the best of them, than a 21-year-old, baby-faced girl who still has so much to learn.
Coo, coo, ca-choo.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Game. Set. Match.
Six weeks before our third round of IVF this fall, I literally woke up one morning and decided I needed to do something completely out of my comfort zone. For three straight years, every decision I'd made revolved around beating my infertility rap and turning into a fertile Myrtle.
In no particular order, I stopped running, stopping drinking alcohol, stopped drinking Starbucks short nonfat lattes, stopped drinking soda, stopped eating anything cold out of the fridge ('cause The Infertility Cure told me that my particular deficiencies demanded warm or room-temp foods), stopped using beauty products with potentially bad crap in them, stopped eating refined sugar, stopped eating anything with white or wheat flour, stopped doing sit-ups, stopped drinking water out of plastic bottles, stopped accepting new freelance projects so that I could keep my stress level down, stopped, stopped, stopped.
After all that stopping, I was ready to go, go, go. So, I jumped out of bed, went to the computer, found a tennis club near my house and signed up for private lessons. Why was this so monumental? Because I've never been what you'd call a super sporty gal. Heck, I wouldn't even say that I've been a mildly sporty gal. Sure, I go to the gym, but that's about fitting into my $200 jeans. Competitive athletics that require score keeping, where there is a winner and a loser, not my bag.
My first memory of sweat-inducing fear around sports is from 3rd grade gym class. One word sums it up: Dodgeball. I just don't think that a game where kids throw balls as hard as they can at each other has any place in civilized society. Especially when you're the kid that everyone tries to hit first because you can't dodge the damn ball. From there came softball and kickball and basketball and volleyball and all kinds of other games with balls. The panic was never ending.
Whether my sports trepidation was (is) about a fear of losing or a fear of winning or a fear of people yelling at me because I did something wrong doesn't really matter. But if I had to guess, I would say it's all the above.
The truth is that I don't like to do things unless I can do them well. Scratch that. I don't like to do things unless I can do them perfectly, even if it's something I've never done before. Talk about setting myself up for failure from the get-go. But I'm working on it. And that's why tennis was so huge. Not only was I going to willingly pay money to play a sport, but I was also going to walk straight onto a court of imperfection. It seems my desire to hit the crap out of something was trumping my fear of failure.
Knowing myself like I do, I was quite aware that I had to have a tennis coach who understood my fragile state and knew how to keep my confidence up. Someone who would follow the pro-con-pro approach: Great swing. Don't forget to follow-through. Good job on the footwork. Lucky for me, Terry showed up for work on my first day of lessons. Talk about patience. I wish I could record Terry's encouraging voice and carry it around with me all day long.
In so many ways, my tennis lessons are the best therapy I've ever had. Did you know that the reason people try to hold their racket so close to the head is because they're trying to control the shot? I didn't. Can you guess where I like to hold my racket? Yep. I play tennis like I play life: If I hold on tighter and with all my strength, I'll control the shot. But, guess what? When I let go of my iron-grip, my shot improves. In fact, the ball actually goes over the net. Fancy that.
In no particular order, I stopped running, stopping drinking alcohol, stopped drinking Starbucks short nonfat lattes, stopped drinking soda, stopped eating anything cold out of the fridge ('cause The Infertility Cure told me that my particular deficiencies demanded warm or room-temp foods), stopped using beauty products with potentially bad crap in them, stopped eating refined sugar, stopped eating anything with white or wheat flour, stopped doing sit-ups, stopped drinking water out of plastic bottles, stopped accepting new freelance projects so that I could keep my stress level down, stopped, stopped, stopped.
After all that stopping, I was ready to go, go, go. So, I jumped out of bed, went to the computer, found a tennis club near my house and signed up for private lessons. Why was this so monumental? Because I've never been what you'd call a super sporty gal. Heck, I wouldn't even say that I've been a mildly sporty gal. Sure, I go to the gym, but that's about fitting into my $200 jeans. Competitive athletics that require score keeping, where there is a winner and a loser, not my bag.
My first memory of sweat-inducing fear around sports is from 3rd grade gym class. One word sums it up: Dodgeball. I just don't think that a game where kids throw balls as hard as they can at each other has any place in civilized society. Especially when you're the kid that everyone tries to hit first because you can't dodge the damn ball. From there came softball and kickball and basketball and volleyball and all kinds of other games with balls. The panic was never ending.
Whether my sports trepidation was (is) about a fear of losing or a fear of winning or a fear of people yelling at me because I did something wrong doesn't really matter. But if I had to guess, I would say it's all the above.
The truth is that I don't like to do things unless I can do them well. Scratch that. I don't like to do things unless I can do them perfectly, even if it's something I've never done before. Talk about setting myself up for failure from the get-go. But I'm working on it. And that's why tennis was so huge. Not only was I going to willingly pay money to play a sport, but I was also going to walk straight onto a court of imperfection. It seems my desire to hit the crap out of something was trumping my fear of failure.
Knowing myself like I do, I was quite aware that I had to have a tennis coach who understood my fragile state and knew how to keep my confidence up. Someone who would follow the pro-con-pro approach: Great swing. Don't forget to follow-through. Good job on the footwork. Lucky for me, Terry showed up for work on my first day of lessons. Talk about patience. I wish I could record Terry's encouraging voice and carry it around with me all day long.
In so many ways, my tennis lessons are the best therapy I've ever had. Did you know that the reason people try to hold their racket so close to the head is because they're trying to control the shot? I didn't. Can you guess where I like to hold my racket? Yep. I play tennis like I play life: If I hold on tighter and with all my strength, I'll control the shot. But, guess what? When I let go of my iron-grip, my shot improves. In fact, the ball actually goes over the net. Fancy that.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Away we go...people like us.
Flying back from a long week of meetings in Seattle last Thursday, I settled into my roomy seat (I heart Virgin America) and decided to clear my head by watching a movie. Preferably a lighthearted comedy that required no thinking whatsoever. Something that would have me floating off the plane and into our first adoption workshop that night.
Scrolling through my options, I realized pretty quickly that the cards were stacked against me. While I loved The Proposal, watching it for the third time in a month sounded like a waste of 8 bucks. No matter how much I loved Ryan Reynolds' abs. So, I clicked on the one movie that the Mr. and I had been consciously avoiding since we first saw the trailer this past summer: Away We Go.
Going through IVF, the last thing I wanted to do was watch a quirky little film about a couple that got pregnant without trying. I mean really, when my bloated belly looked like a pin cushion from all the shots and my boobs were the size of the Good Year blimp times two and my moods were a swinging pendulum, is it any wonder?
But there I was. Staring at the screen. Before I knew it, I clicked "buy" and the movie was mine. For a solid 98 minutes I was going to follow Burt and Verona and her pregnant belly. From the start, I noticed something amazing. I didn't care if she was pregnant. Not that I didn't care about the character. I did. I actually loved the character. I loved the writing. I loved the story. But I didn't care that she was pregnant. This was their journey. Not mine. Until they got to Montreal. That's where they stayed with their friends, Tom and Munch (that's a girl btw), and their adopted children.
To set the scene: Burt, Verona, Tom and Munch were out on the town for a little adult fun. Tom and Munch seemed so in love with each other and their children. Their life seemed perfect. But that would be too... perfect, right?
Tom: She had another miscarriage.
Burt: What? When:
Tom: Thursday.
Burt: This Thursday?
Tom: Yeah. This is her fifth. I know she loves all those kids like, like they were her own blood. But, I wonder if we've been selfish. People like us, we wait 'till our thirties and then we're surprised when the babies aren't so easy to make anymore and then every day another million fourteen-year-olds get pregnant without trying. It's a terrible feeling, this helpless feeling. You just watch these babies grow and then fade. You don't know if you're supposed to name them, or bury them, or...
People like us. And there's the rub. But you know what, I don't think Tom's people and my people are the same people. My people, we're ready to stop pushing our bodies to do something they simply don't want to do. That's why my people and I get along. That and we all have a deep appreciation for Ryan Reynolds' abs.
Scrolling through my options, I realized pretty quickly that the cards were stacked against me. While I loved The Proposal, watching it for the third time in a month sounded like a waste of 8 bucks. No matter how much I loved Ryan Reynolds' abs. So, I clicked on the one movie that the Mr. and I had been consciously avoiding since we first saw the trailer this past summer: Away We Go.
Going through IVF, the last thing I wanted to do was watch a quirky little film about a couple that got pregnant without trying. I mean really, when my bloated belly looked like a pin cushion from all the shots and my boobs were the size of the Good Year blimp times two and my moods were a swinging pendulum, is it any wonder?
But there I was. Staring at the screen. Before I knew it, I clicked "buy" and the movie was mine. For a solid 98 minutes I was going to follow Burt and Verona and her pregnant belly. From the start, I noticed something amazing. I didn't care if she was pregnant. Not that I didn't care about the character. I did. I actually loved the character. I loved the writing. I loved the story. But I didn't care that she was pregnant. This was their journey. Not mine. Until they got to Montreal. That's where they stayed with their friends, Tom and Munch (that's a girl btw), and their adopted children.
To set the scene: Burt, Verona, Tom and Munch were out on the town for a little adult fun. Tom and Munch seemed so in love with each other and their children. Their life seemed perfect. But that would be too... perfect, right?
Tom: She had another miscarriage.
Burt: What? When:
Tom: Thursday.
Burt: This Thursday?
Tom: Yeah. This is her fifth. I know she loves all those kids like, like they were her own blood. But, I wonder if we've been selfish. People like us, we wait 'till our thirties and then we're surprised when the babies aren't so easy to make anymore and then every day another million fourteen-year-olds get pregnant without trying. It's a terrible feeling, this helpless feeling. You just watch these babies grow and then fade. You don't know if you're supposed to name them, or bury them, or...
People like us. And there's the rub. But you know what, I don't think Tom's people and my people are the same people. My people, we're ready to stop pushing our bodies to do something they simply don't want to do. That's why my people and I get along. That and we all have a deep appreciation for Ryan Reynolds' abs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
