Yesterday I met four other women for lunch. Together we five make up half of a group of women that I met online more than seven years ago; we were all infertile, we all lived in the Philadelphia area, and we all were beaten and exhausted and overwhelmed by the reality of the infertility struggle.
We formed a thread/group on the message board of an infertility site, and while many folks drifted in and out of our group over the years, there are a hardcore group of eight of us that have stayed in touch. And as of a few years ago, we all have our children.
I've written about this group before, and it is amazing how our families were built. Two families created through international adoption. Two created through surrogacy. One by surprise, you can get pregnant! One (me) by IVF/ICSI. One by insemination (IUI). Two by domestic adoption. Four of us have two children, while the rest of us have contently (mostly) settled for onlies. We've done it all, faced it all, been through it all together.
Now we all have toddlers and preschoolers. Talk at lunch mostly centered around potty training, frustrations with behavior, discussions of school, talking about vaccinations. Halfway through the lunch, Michele said, "Isn't it just amazing that we are all here talking about our children and their lives." Typing that now, I get tears in my eyes because it IS amazing. It is miraculous. It is a marvel.
Last night before I went to bed I checked on Tori, and she was curled up without a blanket so I quietly stepped in and slipped the blanket up over her, and she sighed and turned in her sleep so that I could gaze at her beautiful little face. I realized in the moment that I'd seen that moment on screen in hundreds of movies and television shows, right down to the pink soft light making patterns on the walls. It struck me, and forcefully, how god damned worth it the struggle was. Here I am, having my perfect heart-warming parenting moment in my very own life and it is AWESOME.
We are all so very, very blessed.
__________________________________________
Recently at one of my recovery meetings an amazing woman named Anita shared something that touched me profoundly. I don't know how old she is, but I know she's been in recovery longer than I've been alive. She's smart, she's still growing as a person, and she offers this particular meeting something irreplaceable by her continued presence.
This week she was talking about perfectionism, and how debilitating it can be. She spoke about how much she hates Halloween, and how she found herself this year apologizing to her kids for the crappy costumes she used to make for them and how sorry she was that she let them all down. In her story, she told us that her (grown now) kids all looked at her a bit funny and said, "Mom, you know that we always won every single costume contest as kids. We always had the best costumes of anyone at our school."
Anita was stunned. Completely stunned. For over 50 years or more she'd been beating herself up about this particular issue. She said that she realized, suddenly, that her perfectionism was so utterly profound and ingrained that she felt like if she made her kid a Peter Pan costume and HE COULDN'T FLY, she'd failed.
I've struggled with that kind of perfectionism throughout my life (combined with my control-freak-ism it makes me an utter BLAST to be around), and that really struck home. And it stood out to me too when I read this recent post from my good friend Jo-Ann about her sister. Her sister strove for perfection throughout her life, up to and including about her weight. As a result, she is currently in the hospital with a body that is failing from long term malnutrition. She's a wealthy woman that has essentially starved herself to death.
Whenever I think about my new relationship with food*, I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Society tells me I should be dieting. I'm fat, after all -- ergo, I should be dieting. If I'm not, I am not a good person. Seriously, that is the message I get, that I know many of us folks of size get. Some of us get the message so thoroughly that even after fighting our whole lives, even winning a battle against cancer, we still starve ourselves to death in the name of Thin.
This makes me very sad. Please go show Jo-Ann your love, she's really having a rough year this year, and this situation with her sister isn't helping. And remember, it's better to be fat and alive. It really is.
*Did I tell you that without making any effort to lose weight -- just by trying to be a bit healthy and exercising -- that I dropped three sizes? Intuitive eating KICKS FUCKING ASS. In fact, I just ate a donut. Fuck you, diets!



