Entry #687475, added on 02-12-11 @ 3:45 pm EST
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| volantynys day | Entry #687475 |
My sister found out that she's having a girl, allegedly. Cue the happy tears and the decorating frenzy. She actually became hysterical with happiness when she found out because, as she says, she's going to have the 'perfect family' that she's always dreamed of.
I'm glad about it, but I'd have been just as happy if she were having a boy. I do understand her need for a girl, though, it's just that I also know that this fits with my sister's ideas about appearances. She wanted the 'millionaire family', and she's got it. That's what my sister K. is all about, having what everyone wants, and more than that, she looks down on those who don't want it or have it. The idea of me being content with only one child baffles her, as does my choice of a man who is essentially an artist by profession. Knowing this, I felt a weird combination of things when my mother called me to chatter about the news of a new granddaughter, babbling almost incoherently and not letting me respond when she'd ask questions. In a way, it's nice to hear such enthusiasm coming from her, but on the other hand, there's a small part of me, and I mean that figuratively and literally, that is kind of envious of my sister. Oh, I know it's ridiculous and immature, because there's no reason for me to feel this way, really. The thing is that I know my sister wanted this badly, and after two miscarriages she deserved to get what she wanted, but I also realized that I don't often think about what I want, and this is where she is better than me.
I don't have a lot of goals, really. The ones I have are small and uninspiring to most, I think. The problem is that I am almost always apt to respond negatively to hearing news of other people's successes, and I can only attribute this to a strange kind of jealousy, an envy that I don't really understand. Why would I be envious of someone's success when I don't actually try to achieve anything on my own? What happens in the middle that I allow myself to respond the way I do? My sister and her husband are decent, hard-working individuals, and they have a beautiful home and they enjoy a certain amount of financial freedom, and though I'm mostly happy for them, there's a part of me which resents their success, too. I can't say this is all about money, either, because I believe that if I had my own money, I'd still find a way to resent them. Is it plain old garden-variety sibling rivalry? Is it really as simple as that?
Probably.
Maybe it's been so long since I've been excited about anything that I'm being petulant because of all the fanfare my sister is currently enjoying. That's got to be it. I have had waves of bliss in my own life, and when I was riding them, I was extremely self-centered. Like six years ago, when I found out I was pregnant, and I was newly living with a man I adored, and I was employed and looking to buy a new house. I was almost drunk on good fortune. So, I've had that period of glee and I shouldn't begrudge someone I love for hers. I'm just being a little girl. I am sticking out my bottom lip because I'm a sadsack.
Also, I have cramps. I forgot about that. Mystery solved, then.
On to names, because naming babies is the fun part, right? I said before that I am a fan of the name Meara. My dad loves the name Saoirse (Seer-sha) which means freedom in Gaelic and is a clever way of him to push an agenda, and my mother has been campaigning for Annika, for some reason. My sister is almost married to the idea of naming her girl Maguire, which is our paternal great-grandmother's surname, and because she thinks it sounds 'interesting'. When I sat down at the dinner table on Friday night and started talking about the whole name controversy, M. asked me why we all cared so much. I said I didn't know, that it was just something to talk about, I guessed. Then, he got on to wondering why my sisters and I are so hellbent on making sure all of the kids have Irish names, and I attempted to explain that since a child typically carries their father's family name, it leaves very little of the mother's heritage in things.
'So, you consider yourself Irish?' he asked, heatedly.
'I'm as Irish as you are French, which is half,' I responded defensively.
'Why do you always do that?!' he jumped up. 'Why do you have to be so defensive with everything?' And then, he banged on the table.
I immediately stood up.
'I'm not having this ridiculous conversation with you. You are an infant and I will not continue on so that you can have an excuse to indulge in your usual histrionics!' Then, I picked up my plate and threw it on the kitchen counter before locking myself in the bedroom. Yes, I am aware of the irony.
After my anger subsided, which took a number of hours, I calmly let myself realize that the entire disagreement was completely stupid. I then tried to piece together the reasons for my reaction as well as his. For me, it was a response to his unanticipated anger because I felt it was inappropriate. I also acknowledged that my insecurity played a role. Oh, and also, the cramps. If I think about it, they are mostly to blame for a lot of things.
I slept alone that night, and wasn't even upset about it, but by yesterday afternoon, I was beginning to tire of the standoff. I didn't want to be the first to speak, but I also know that he likely wouldn't have said anything if I didn't. At one point in the afternoon, when I knew he was out walking, I looked out the window and saw that he was carrying a cloth grocery bag and that there were a dozen roses peeking over the top. I softened, then, and knew that at some point I was going to have make a move. I knew he'd be waiting for me to.
I waited until nearly midnight, because that's how long it takes me to become the bigger person. I crept down the stairs and took the seat across from him.
He looked at me.
'Ça va marche?'
'Fine.'
Silence. He was actually watching Nascar. I found this disturbing.
'I think we need to talk.'
And so, we did. He started off angry, but quickly softened, despite telling me that life with me can be a real struggle, and me telling him that he may think he's centered and diplomatic, but he is also seriously 'effed up'. He was slightly amused by the this, and he said he wasn't, but I said 'Oh yeah, you truly are, and you know someone is effed up when they can't admit that they are.' It was late. I had cramps. I am not affectionate enough, I am defensive and undemonstrative and to these points I came up with counterpoints which I felt illustrated the opposite. I told him that he has a wall around him, that he often overreacts to things that don't merit the emotion, and that I think he has mother issues. Then, he told me that he really likes me, that this is why he is here, why he loves me. He told me that I am funny, and that even though life with me isn't what he expected, he knows I love him, too. Yes, I sighed, I'm done for. I told him he needs to be more romantic, that women need that from time to time, and this is when he presented me with the roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
'You were saying?' he smiled.
'Want a chocolate?' I grinned.
I hate fighting with him. I hate confrontation in my older age even though I lived on it for so long when I was younger. I hate feeling insecure and I hate sleeping alone.
I like feeling the warm, slick oil creep of relief when the reconciliatory kisses are given, though.
'I like the name Madeleine,' he said then. 'Just not enough to ever name one of my own kids that.'
'Evangeline's nice, too.'
'They're not Irish names, though,' he smiled.
'No, but they're nice names, anyway.'
I also think the negative feelings I was having when my sister told me of her new baby girl was mostly to do with me knowing I'll probably never have another child. For a long time, this felt like exactly what I wanted, but as I get older, and more pointedly, as M. gets older, I am beginning to feel like the choice isn't mine to make, and that hurts a little. I love my girl with every part of myself, and I suppose I have only recently come to think that I might have liked the option of having another baby. It makes me sad, knowing it's probably never going to happen because of things like age and money, both excellent things to consider before procreating, but the maternal side of me doesn't care about these things. The mother in me wants to hold another tiny human that he and I created because we wanted to.
***
It's Valentine's Day. I used to hate Valentine's Day with a passion, ironically enough. It used to be a day of disappointment when I was a girl when the boy I had a crush on would fail to give me any sort of attention. I used to hate sitting in homeroom as a teenager while other girls collected roses or balloons from secret admirers and I would have to sit at my desk and pretend that I didn't care. It was torture. It bordered on inhumane. Then, things began to change.
1989- Then-boyfriend Jason took me out to dinner at a chain restaurant after arriving an hour and a half late. He ordered a salad, saying he wasn't that hungry, and offered me a slightly wilted rose as a gesture of his 'love'. The waiter kept grinning at Jason who grinned right back, and I thought it was some kind of silent male communication meant to convey how good-looking I was. Instead, as I later found out, it was a silent male communication meant to say 'Hey, look at you, guy, two girls in one night!'. Yes, I was date number two and had no idea until two months later when date number one ended up pregnant. He said she was easier than I was, which was why he strayed. It did not end well.
1990- I sent twelve red roses to a shy boy who I knew liked me. We'd been on a few dates but had yet to confirm we were an exclusive couple. My friend Kyla convinced me to send the flowers because it was Valentine's Day, after all, and I was only mildly disappointed to receive nothing in return. I knew he was new to the dating scene and decided not to feel badly about it. He told me his mother was the one who received the roses and had wrongfully assumed that his father had sent them to her. When she saw they were for her son, she was slightly humiliated but also curious. Who was this girl who was brazen enough to send flowers to a boy? He called me and thanked me profusely, apologizing for not sending me anything. I didn't know, he said and I could hear him blushing through the phone. For the next thirteen years, he never forgot Valentine's Day, not even the last one, which was five days before we split up for good.
2004- In a hotel room in Montreal, after eating in a beautiful restaurant filled with hundreds of red balloons. I am feeling kind of queasy, and I am late. M. buys me a pregnancy test as a joke, and I go into the shower after absent-mindedly taking the test. I come out of the shower, towel off, remember the test and decide to look at it. Positive. I look at the mirror which is cloudy with mist and I see something beaming at me. It is my own face, and it is unmistakably happy. I tell him he is going to be a father, and we kiss and fall into each other, delirious. It the best Valentine's Day of my life.
2010- I wake up to the sound of my wee one playing in her room. M. gets up from his side of the bed and gently tells her to keep it down. She is excited. It is Valentime's Day! I blearily make my way to the kitchen and present her with a tiny heart-shaped box that has a tiny teddy bear on top. She gives us both handmade cards that she has been working on for week and has carefully hidden throughout the house. We eat chocolate and croissants for breakfast and watch a little bit of the Olympics before deciding we are not sporty people. I place the vase full of red roses on the dining room table where they can get the sun and be safe from plant-eating cats. The red of their petals is almost indescribably beautiful to me. Like blood electric. I will never see roses as cliché. To me they are classic. They smell of every kind of love.
I am weak from the effects of sugar and cramps, respectively, but I don't mind. I am loved, I love and this holiday celebrates the virtue of chocolate. I am content.
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