Tiptoeing Around the Infertile: Part 1

My most recent (pre/during holiday) posts were about how to avoid our relatives and their moronic questions during obligatory family holiday soirees. Well, now that I've gained some hindsight and cooled off from the heat of the holidays in the dead of winter, I wonder.... Could it be? Is it possible? That maybe, just maybe...Dare I say it? it's not them who have the problem but us????

Let's face it: There's no way to please us during the holidays. We don't want to feel left out. We don't want to be treated like lepers. So we might choose to say something helpful to our families like:

"Why do all of you have to focus on the fact that I can't get pregnant? Why can't you just treat me like everybody else? Why do I have to be thought of as the one without the baby? You insensitive bastards!"

So there they go...those poor dumb relations of ours falling for it...granting our holiday wish: Treating us like everybody else..not thinking of us as the ones without the baby, but hanging around the living room with us drinking, chatting, treating us like we were normal, (their first big mistake) showing us pictures of their kids, talking about the latest thing the kids did.

You may be sitting next to them, smiling at the pictures and doing the "how cute" anthem at each one, but you're much busier in your own head, moping on "Planet Poor Me".

Then the unsuspecting relatives have the gall to ask you if you'd like something to eat. And you're thinking:

"Eat? Eat?! What is she kidding? Can't she see I'm sitting here so depressed?!"

But you don't want to be impolite so the answer that comes out of your mouth is actually more like: "Thank you but I'm really not hungry. Maybe I'll just take the left side of that turkey over there and some macaroni and cheese. Don't worry about a plate. If I could just have the casserole and a fork would be fine. Is that the only pie over there?"

So then the relatives continue on through the meal in their ignorance feeling they're doing a splendid job (as you'd wished) of not making you feel like the infertile red-headed step-child. Then as you chow down, they comment on how their child is such a picky eater and someone else chimes in by recounting an unfortunate event one Thanksgiving when junior over-ate and reupholstered the minivan on the way home.

And there you sit, listening and smiling, and polishing off a fruit cake, figuring that there's no chance you'd get drunk off the bottle of Jack Daniel's you downed from their liquor cabinet with that fruit cake barracading your blood stream. And the none-the-wiser relatives keep gabbing and gabbing while you have so much steam coming out of your eyes and your ears that old strange men in towels come into the room and sit around you. And all you can do is mumble in your best stage whisper to nobody in particular:

"Don't you know I'm infertile? You insensitive bastards!"

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