Published: March 08, 2008 08:15 pm            

Column: An open letter to my friend who has not yet had children

NEW ALBANY, Ind. — Dear Friend, It was great seeing you last week. I loved those crazy photos from your recent vacation. Who knew a couple in their mid-to-late 30s could still consume copious amounts of tequila and recover so quickly?

Seeing you is always so amazing. When you gave me the head’s up on which movies are worth my time from the current releases, knowing I probably won’t catch any of them until they’re on DVD, your newly-whitened teeth really dazzled against your tan and slightly-Botoxed face.

We’re pretty different now, from the outside looking in. Our lifestyles diverged so many years ago, it’s obvious that we connect on a deeper level than our spending habits demonstrate. But even though we don’t dress in the same brands or belong to the same clubs, I still know you well enough to recognize the suggestion of worry lines on your plasticized forehead. I could tell something was on your mind besides your 401k.

I asked about work. About your wife. About the new PDA/phone/printer-fax-scanner combo you fiddled with while the waiter refilled your glass of tea.

“How’re the kids?” you asked. I confessed my latest batch of parenting gaffes, bragged on the boys’ amazing resiliency, cute catchphrases, and developmental milestones. You glowed. I know you love my kids. But then those lines came back.

“It’s the old Bio Clock,” you admitted. “We’re getting older — we’re running out of time — I don’t know if it’s ever going to happen for us. And it’s breaking her heart. She wants to get pregnant so badly.”

Through the years, I’ve held your hand while you searched for jobs, climbed the corporate ladder, found a faith community, even lost your mother to cancer. I’ve bonded with your wife, with your brothers, with your very dreams. I know your heart, and the heart of your spouse. I know you would make terrific parents. And I know that the lack of children in your home hurts you more than you can express. I’ve known it for years, actually. At times I’ve looked at my own kids with your eyes, somewhat ashamed to mention how great they are, afraid of hurting you, tearing open wounds you’ve worked so hard to deny are there.

But, you know — you’re right. We’re not getting any younger, any of us, and chances are good that if you don’t start the adoption process soon, you’re not going to be a parent. The time may have come for me to tell you, sincerely, what you’re missing.

You’re missing screaming, from birth to every day after. You’re missing having to change the sheets daily, and waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom only to find your potty trained pre-schooler half-asleep on the floor with “number two” on the toilet seat and on his shirt. You’re missing so much laundry that the only ancient Chinese secret you can imagine aiding the situation is some profane suicide pact.

You’re missing illegible hand-writing from years of strained tendons, acquired when wriggling little dwarves flail into back-dives from your arms, upset over the inequities of a world in which they are not allowed a third glass of chocolate milk before bedtime. You’re missing the refusal to make eye contact at the school drop-off. You’re missing thoughtfully prepared snacks, treats, activities, and rewards (not to mention meals) going into the trash, or being destroyed by temper tantrums.

You’re missing back-to-back births with little to no recovery time, engorgement, the debate between formula or breastfeeding, and the way each of your personal parenting choices divides you from others in your demographic, way more heatedly than the Obama vs. Clinton question. You’re missing the decision between public school or private (or homeschool), big church/small church/no church, plastic toy recalls, double- or single-income lifestyle, a chorus of grandparent and extended family opinions, and the singularly lonely experience of being the only person in the house to tuck the kids into bed after the inevitable fight with your spouse, in which he decides it’s his turn to take a walk and get some air. You miss the guilt of being that spouse, yourself. The one who gets in the car, destination unknown, thinking “damn it, I’ll take the afternoon for myself.” You miss getting to be the one to return home five minutes later, completely lost without your family, completely sated by that breath of independence from them.

You miss a lot of other stuff, too. You miss the thrill of seeing that baby’s face for the first time. The nights you fall asleep sitting up, holding that precious bundle in your arms — and not minding a bit. You miss being on the receiving end of another human being’s first smile — being the very reason she smiles. You miss being the one your baby runs to for a hug when he falls on his face for the first time, or registers the disappointment of Daddy leaving for work without having given him a kiss. You miss watching your kids sing improvised pop lyrics in the rearview mirror. You miss the teacher telling you that your child is brilliant above all expectation, that he is kind, that he smiles a lot. You miss Halloween costumes. You miss out on being Santa Claus. You miss explaining why the goldfish died, and how that passage of life compares and contrasts with Grandpa’s passing. You miss the bright glow of their faces when they earn their first quarter, and then the earnest conversation in which they plan to spend their riches. You miss those kids hiding their faces when Voldemort attacks Harry on the television set, or the way they weep over Toy Story 2. You miss the sloppy open-mouthed kisses on your cheek, bathing half your head in spit and your complete soul in love.

As for me, I’ve only mothered young children so far. I haven’t yet experienced the tweens, obsession with clothing, constant badgering for lip-synched concert tickets or dangerous sporting gear (unless you count Steve’s Christmas list), or the pride of watching my child score the winning home run in his Little League championship. I haven’t broken up a session of Post Office or had to insist on keeping the computer in the living room to spy on chat sessions, and I’ve never hosted parties in my basement that I’m not encouraged to attend. No college decisions yet. No summer camp. No braces. No talk about the birds and the bees, even. Not really.

But I’m in far enough to know that these things will come in much different ways than I expect, nothing like my friends have told me about, barely recognizable to what I experienced, myself. Becoming “Mom” has often been like Michael Corleone succumbing to the position of Don. Grudgingly at times, I admit I’m the best person for the job — but inside, I feel a sense of pride and goodwill toward all young people that are part of my life. I know I do this thing well.

Sometimes, my dear friend, being a parent is like having your own tiny flock of Helen Kellers. You are their miracle worker. You take their abuse, you guide them best you can, and when they triumph, you shed tears they can’t possibly understand. That bio clock is ticking with good reason. Your very soul desires to experience a miracle you have to live to appreciate.

I hope you have a child, whether through adoption or birth. I hope you consider fostering a child, even. Because if even only a part of you is whispering “I want to do this,” I think you deserve to see it through. You’ve taken care of yourself and your spouse so well, for so long. I know you’ll do an incredible job with your child — but perhaps more importantly, I know a child will really do something incredible inside you, inside your heart, that no gadget or trip to Barbados or beauty treatment can do —when you look in the mirror you will see a different person staring back. Someone better, more fully himself.

You are missing out on one of life’s richest blessings: the love of a child, which can’t be bought, and is never earned. I hope this year, you win that lottery, and join me on the other side. Misery loves company, you know.



Leslea M. Harmon writes for The Tribune in New Albany, Ind. She can be reached at leslea.harmon@gmail.com.

        

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