I am currently washing almost every piece of washable fabric or bedding in the house, as we are but days away from having house guests. Also planned for today is the vacuuming of the entire upstairs, followed by deep steam cleaning. Tomorrow will be dusting and bathrooms and the next day will be shopping and baking.
It is going to be a busy visit. These poor folks are driving eleven hours Wednesday night in order to arrive on Thanksgiving morning. I assume after that they'll take a nap. Later on, we are all going to drive up to Keith's father's house for the large, family dinner.
Yes. We will not be having a nice quiet dinner at our house, with a ham. Someone in Keith's family found out that we were planning to retreat from the messy battlefield of holiday dinners and sounded the collective alarm. Massive amounts of family guilt were deployed and consequently, our two friends are now being brought into the bosom of family, despite the fact that they are complete strangers to everyone else but us.
Fun for all! Oh well. At least the family dinner will be much less agonizing with our friends there, since it will diffuse weird family dynamics. At least, that's my hope.
Sometimes even I feel like a stranger at the family parties. Maybe because Keith and I didn't have a formal wedding, which helps to fuse one into place. Also, I didn't have a divided family growing up (though trust me, we had our issues.) I'm not used to having the whole step family. It feels like there are two entirely separate family parties who just happened, unluckily, to rent the same venue at the same time. And I don't really belong in either party, since I only married into it.
What I normally do is curl up on a huge leather sofa with a glossy catalogue of home furnishings (the only reading material available) and pretend that I am not there. This has been my coping mechanism since lunch time in the fifth grade, which explains my incredible amount of focus and attention span.
Usually I end up having small child care foisted upon me, as I am the only one who does not play poker. I don't mind taking care of children, but taking care of children while their mother and grandmother are playing poker and the child is on the verge of breaking one expensive decorative do dad after another is nerve racking.
Usually it's my well meaning husband who initiates this. "Jenny loves kids!" he cries, the proud and loving husband. "Jenny won't mind! She'll keep an eye on her (or them.)"
I don't think he'll do that this year, since we both are on the same page. I have been doing some studying of the impact of infertility. It turns out that the emotional pain of infertility is equal to that of a woman facing cancer, or a woman facing HIV. It hurts that much. It's that hard to get through.
I won't lie; every time I acknowledge the extent of this pain, it revives in me anger and incredulity at God for allowing it to happen to me, on top of everything else. Why would He allow that? Then, last night I realized this question is not the one I should be asking. It's not the definitive question.
The definitive question is, how am I going to live with the question unanswered? The fact is, there simply is no acceptable answer; the only choices available to us is to be stuck in the question, and the anger and pain it engenders, or to live the best we can without resolution. The latter option is the best, because it frees us to celebrate life just as it is, to love the gift of life in it's imperfection. But I have to keep reminding myself of this.
On the website about managing the pain of infertility during family holidays, the first recommendation was simply not to go. The second was giving yourself permission to go into the bathroom, shut to the door, turn on the water and cry. The third was giving yourself permission to calmly say that you are not up for holding or caring for any children. Or, if holding children is your thing, to do so all night long even if it means you will cry in the car all the way home.
Reading all that really, really helped. I do not feel so strange anymore; in fact, apparently I am right on target.
So I keep thinking about ways of being. How do I want to be during the Thanksgiving dinner? Do I want to be the wallflower who never says a word and reads quietly in the corner? Do I want to be more proactive? Wouldn't it be interesting to just be rude, I sometimes wonder.
I feel like I was deeply wounded the last time I was around family, even if it was by accident. I feel this need to find some kind of protection before going into the same situation again.
But how do I do that? What does that look like? It may surprise you to know that I have no idea. The fact of the matter is, when threatened, I always made myself more vulnerable. It's like the possum trying to play dead or the ostrich with her head in the sand. It's a child's way of coping with the unthinkable, and, most importantly of all, the thing that cannot be stopped or controlled anyway, so there is no point in trying.
I typically assume the best of other people; I don't say this to be vain, it's a weakness. I don't have accurate judgement. I even go so far as to think that if I assume the best of people, they will magically rise to my higher expectation of them and be free to be the best they can be, and then I will be safe from the worst of them. This is magical thinking; it's a child's thought pattern.
Lately, I feel this deep seated urge within me to see more clearly, to protect myself better. I want an adult's clear eyed, confident judgement and I want to be able to act in my own interests with authority and compassion.
Maybe just knowing that is enough; they say being aware is half the battle. And now, I must go. Reinforcements in the form of my handsome, uniformed husband have arrived and the upstairs awaits our combined attention.
