"No, I only have two," she replied cheerfully, when I asked if she had three, "unless you count my dog." She asked if I still went to church and I squirmed a little bit and said I was still a member but I hadn't been in awhile. Whenever I see anyone from church I always feel guilty, like I've been caught playing hooky. Then she asked The Question:
"You just have the one, right?" I said yes, and that it was nice to see her, and went back to what I was doing. Then on the way home I cried, feeling distinctly like Saint Peter.
"I'm sorry," I said to Balthazar. "I didn't mean to deny you. I just don't know what to say."
My friend Tanja has said that she never knows what to tell people when they ask how many kids she has. Does she have one, referring to w, her only living biological child? Does she have two, w and L, her stillborn son? Does she have three, w, W and O, her living biological son and her two stepsons, or does she include them all and say she has four?
My problem is not quite so complicated, but I still don't know how to respond when the question comes up. I hope someday to get to a place where I can say matter-of-factly, "I have a seven year-old and a baby that died a few months ago." So far it isn't working out that way. A lot depends on the other person's reaction. When I went to polliwog to return a couple of baby shower gifts, I told the owner that I was returning the things because my baby had died. He looked up, startled, and said he was sorry, but otherwise didn't react. And I was shaky, but OK.
But then a week or so later in pilates class, an instructor I hadn't seen since I came back to pilates said, "So, Elizabeth, have there been any changes in your body I should know about?"
"Kelli didn't tell you?" I said in dread. I prefer to have an advance man for these things. He said no, Kelli hadn't told him anything. "Well, there's nothing I can tell you about in front of everyone," I said, kind of hoping he'd drop it. Instead he took me aside, which was really about two feet away from the rest of the class and afforded no privacy at all, and then I had to tell him. He hugged me and I instantly lost it, despite the fact that I barely know the guy. He got teary and that made me sob even more. And then after all that I had to sit back down and take the class, and he had to lead it. The lesson, I guess, is that the nicer someone is the worse it is, for both of us.
I live in terror of moments like that. Partly because I'm embarrassed. It's just not done in our society, to cry all over people. Also because I think I should be able to control myself in public a little better by now. And because it hurts, a lot, to have to do it over and over. But it also hurts to pretend it didn't happen just to make the wheels of social interaction turn more smoothly.
Next to the cash register at the coffee shop the owners keep a Christmas card picture of their three year-old daughter. It got me thinking about the Christmas card and what I'm supposed to do about that. How do you compose a Christmas card with a hole blown in it? Dress Captain Zimbo in a onesie? Put a bow on the cat you got because your baby didn't come home? It feels wrong to leave him out. But it feels morbid to include him. Merry Christmas from Jonathan, Elizabeth, Jasper and...
Do I say I have one child or that I had two? The lady from church who was just being friendly probably did not need or want to know. On the other hand, by withholding that crucial information I'm guaranteeing that I will not become friends with her or ever make a connection. Because the only way you can know me, now, is to know about Balthazar.
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