Page 8 - Issue 05 2nd edition

It was perfection in the name of a dry, 85- make a statement and to integrate
degree-blanketed-with-sun summer day. I
hovered inside of my house. Most of the
blinds were drawn, only the less
conspicuous AC condensers were
activated.
“Okay, bye!” My husband called out
carelessly after opening the front door,
heading off to a simmering and protracted
work day in his restaurant kitchen.
“SShhhhh!” I instantly hissed in ferocious
defense of my privacy. We had opted out
of our second annual neighborhood block
party. My husband had to be at work by
the time the festivities really revved up,
and I had ingeniously noted that taking in
the expansive scene of families with
young children by myself did not exactly
support my best interest. Ringside seat?
Uh, no thanks!
I gasp at how things have improved in the
four and half years since our last failed
fertility treatment. During the block party,
which from the time the roads are
barricaded spans 11 hours, I was able to
sit rather contentedly and productively
inside the home we bought to raise our
children in. I invested in a day of
planning, assessing, goal-setting, and
prioritizing (newly reignited abilities that
had been blacked out for years) as what
should have been throbbed gently but
persistently in the background.
Struggling to figure out how my new life
“fits,” as I venture to say most of us do, I
had envisioned in future years inviting a
group of involuntarily childless people to
the block party once I met my local “in-
person” tribe. It might be a good place to
8 The Childless Not By Choice Magazine: Sept/Oct 2018 Issue #05
ourselves, I had thought, and I felt like I’d
need the support of people during this
event who know how I really feel.
My future plotting was disrupted by the
stabbingly glorious sounds of kids
shrieking along to Zedd’s recent hit “The
Middle.” A self-proclaimed lifelong pop
music junkie, it hit me then and there I
would never be singing along to pop
music with my kids or get to watch them
do it. I barely had the chance to breathe
my way through that “I will never” when
the DJ (who of course happened to be set
up RIGHT OUTSIDE MY HOUSE) called all
of the moms and then dads onto the
dance floor.
My heart rate accelerated. All the hair on
my body bristled. “Holy Goodness!” I
exclaimed. “Way to throw 20% of the
world’s population right under the bus in
one fell sentence! What an exclusionary
thing to do!” I pondered what I’d have
done had I been there. Visions of rocking
out on the dance floor anyway while
giving a sweet smile and erect finger to
anyone who pointed out that I wasn’t a
mother poured through my head.
“When we don’t see ourselves reflected
back in our culture, we feel reduced to
something so small and insignificant that
we’re easily erased from the world of
important things. Both the process of
being reduced and the final product of
that process—invisibility—can be
incredibly shaming.” —Brenee Brown, I
Thought It Was Just Me
Thinking ahead to next year, I mulled
over the idea of speaking to the organizer